


The Summer Boy

by khorazir



Series: The Summer Boy [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 1980s, Alternate Season/Series 04, Bullying, Chanctonbury Ring, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, GNU Terry Pratchett, Grief/Mourning, Inexperienced Sherlock, Kid Sherlock, M/M, Nature, Not Season/Series 04 Compliant, Pining Sherlock, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, Post-Season/Series 03, Sussex, Tiffany Aching books
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-03
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-08-28 19:49:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 94,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8460733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khorazir/pseuds/khorazir
Summary: About half a year after the fateful events at Appledore, Sherlock and John embark on a private case in Sussex. For Sherlock, it’s a journey into his past, bringing up memories both happy and sad that he has locked away for almost thirty years. For John, it means coming to terms with the present – and a potential future with Sherlock.





	1. The Wardrobe

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been nagging me for months now, demanding to be written. So here we are. I hope to finish it before Season 4 airs. For those waiting for the next chapter of [_Enigma_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1991325/chapters/4313418), never fear. It's in the works as well.  
>  A big thank you goes to rifleman_s for betaing this story.
> 
> Part of this story is set during Sherlock's childhood and contains instances of bullying. The grief/mourning tagged above partly refers to John's loss of his daughter (she doesn't die, though). If either troubles you, proceed with care.

_July 2016_

“Is there a chance that you’re actually going to help me put away the shopping?” comes John’s voice from the kitchen, underscored by the soft rustle of the canvas carrier bags he has taken to keeping in his rucksack for when he passes by either Tesco or Waitrose on his return from work.

He glances in the direction of the living room, then sighs and shakes his head, as if finding his suspicion that he won’t receive any assistance confirmed. “Thought so.”

From his armchair, Sherlock acknowledges his arrival with a low grunt, despite being secretly pleased that John’s shift is over. He is always glad when John is back. Moreover, there is a matter they need to discuss, an impending case. Finally. Sherlock isn’t sure they’re going to take it yet. He has to consult some more with himself first, and then with John, now that he’s back home.

Home meaning Baker Street. For about three months now, John has been living back at 221B where, according to Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson and the universe in general, he truly belongs. It’s good, having him back. The flat was too eerily quiet without the footsteps in his upstairs bedroom and the occasional creak of the bedsprings at night, his slow typing, his clatter in the kitchen when he makes tea or cooks, his breathing and the rustle of his clothes, the scent of his shampoo and aftershave in the bathroom, and the many other minute signs that tell Sherlock that another human being – and indeed his favourite one – occupies their flat once more, that he isn’t alone with his thoughts and memories. There is the thing about regular(ish) meals, too, no longer solely provided by Mrs. Hudson or the occasional takeaway delivery.

Milk is once again a staple in the fridge, thankfully. Tea is an abomination without it, Sherlock finds, although coffee is strangely bearable as long as it contains sugar. Tea without sugar is fine, but not without milk. It’s a conundrum he hasn’t solved yet.

Now, even the occasional fresh fruit or vegetables are present in the flat. Helpful for preventing scurvy. Sherlock would love to study a case of the disease (albeit preferably not in himself). It’s safe to say that John’s return has successfully prevented a scurvy epidemic in 221B, and has made Sherlock gain about four pounds. More often than not, Sherlock eats now even when he is not hungry, because it seems to ensure that John remembers to eat as well. Thus the weight gain. There’s one particular shirt he can’t wear any longer for fear of popping the buttons and tearing the buttonholes when taking a deep breath. Not that he can do that very well, breathing deeply. The bullet wound still hurts when he expands his chest forcefully, although the injury itself is barely visible anymore. Only a small scar remains.

Another advantage of having John around again is the knowledge of his deep and absolute disapproval of Sherlock’s smoking and indeed drug habit (the latter of which he doesn’t have, honestly, thank you very much). He hasn’t touched any class-A substances ever since his recall from the Serbian mission, and the only time he handled the two packets of cigarettes hidden in the flat was to throw them away, demonstratively so that John was aware of it. There is a small stash of cocaine stored away so well that it would take some major rearrangement of kitchen appliances to get at it. Sherlock regards it as a kind of test. Should he be desperate enough to try and retrieve it, he has silently vowed to check himself into rehab before that happens. It’s a small comfort to know it’s there, though, both a solace and a constant temptation. Because he isn’t addicted, he really isn’t. He’s better than that. Or at least he tries to be, if not for himself, then for John.

John should be proud. He should be relieved and happy, even, that Sherlock is finally and truthfully trying to battle his addictions (not an addict, a user: it’s always been strictly controlled, damn it). He’s even been doing without nicotine patches for the past three months. The craving for nicotine is far worse than that for cocaine. On one occasion, he cast the living room windows wide open when a group of construction workers were sitting outside Speedy’s having their breakfast, all of them smoking heavily. For a short while, Sherlock revelled in the second-hand nicotine wafting up, until the draught unsettled the stacks of paper on his desk and the sheet music on the music stand, and he had to shut the windows again.

So yes, John should be pleased with his progress and self-discipline. John, however, seems strangely reluctant to settle. It’s even evident in his voice just now as he implicitly complains about Sherlock’s laziness and refusal to help with the shopping. What would have ended in a scolding and friendly banter before the Fall, Mary, and the baby, and all the things that happened after, now sounds terse, almost passive-aggressive like so many things John has been saying lately.

If he speaks at all. Even though he partly hides it behind his habitual stoicism, to Sherlock he seems tense and irritable all the time. He doesn’t let it out, though. What previously would have been outbursts of disapproval and anger is now subdued, contained, internalised. Sherlock doubts it’s healthy, bottling up one’s feelings like that. In fact, he knows it’s not. He has experience that way, pretending to the world that he is a brilliant calculating machine, all rationality and logic, a mere intellect divorced from sentiment of any kind. Oh, if only that were true. He fiercely wishes he could be that cold and detached all the time. It would have saved him and other a lot of pain and heartbreak. If his actions ever since the Fall prove anything, it’s that he is completely guided by his feelings. Sentiment made him jump, spend two harrowing years away from everything he holds dear, only to return to a changed John and a changed London and the feeling that he didn’t belong anywhere anymore. Sentiment let him plan a wedding that nearly ripped out his heart, standing by watching the love of his life marry someone else. Someone whom he tried to befriend for John’s sake, and who not much later shot him through the heart. Sentiment made him defend her, and, worse, become a murderer himself to ensure their happy ever after. And last but not least, because of dratted sentiment he was ready to lay down his own life in punishment for the crime he committed, to let himself be carted off to Eastern Europe and never return.

He still doesn’t know what earned him the reprieve from certain doom. Lady Smallwood had her hand in it, that much he has found out. And Mycroft, of course. Always meddling Mycroft. But for once, Sherlock is grateful for his interference. Otherwise he’d be dead by now. Six months, his brother had estimated. They’re up. Sherlock doubts he would have lasted even that long. He’d tried to end it sooner, on his own terms, instead of risking being captured again and perish under torture. So here he is, alive. And bored, if he is honest. Bored, and worried about John.

The Moriarty tape turned out to be a hoax, timely orchestrated by his fan-club with the help of someone influential at the BBC (persuaded, no doubt, by someone who knew exactly what she liked). Still, someone has taken over what remains of Jim Moriarty’s criminal empire, has stepped into his footsteps. More than one person, that much Sherlock is certain of. But so far they have been quiet, lying low. When they make a move, Sherlock may decide to become involved again. Or not. Only if they turn out to be interesting, or a danger to John and their friends. Friends. Sherlock never thought he’d have them, but apparently some of the people he has surrounded himself with seem to actually care about him. He’s still getting used to the thought.

Sherlock has vowed not to waste the second (third?) chance he’s been given, risking his life and those of the people close to him by chasing after the new spider in the centre of Moriarty’s web. He has wasted so much time already, and become the very person he never wanted to be, namely a murderer, a criminal. And what for? Sentiment. Love, even, because that’s what it boils down to. Sherlock can admit it to himself now. It’s taken him a long time to understand, to label what it was exactly he has been feeling for John Watson basically from the day they met, or, more precisely, the first evening they spent giggling at a crime scene and then grinning at each other over Dim Sum while Sherlock deduced the other late night patrons of the restaurant. John had just shot a man to save Sherlock’s life, had proved sturdy and loyal and utterly reliable under pressure. He had shown himself to thrive on danger and excitement, and to possess the same wry, slightly dark and rather inappropriate sense of humour that Sherlock has himself. They were a good match, then. Still are, Sherlock is convinced. If only John could see it as well.

Oh, there have been times when Sherlock was convinced John fancied him in some way. All the signs were there, even when considered objectively and unclouded by wishful thinking. The conversation at Angelo’s, and the one with The Woman at Battersea Power Station which Sherlock overheard. The dancing lessons. Sherlock’s heart still aches when he remembers those. They have a special room in his mind palace. The knee-grope during the stag night. Oh no, Sherlock hasn’t forgotten that. Despite his inebriation that night, he remembers every little detail. It’s like John’s hand has burned a lasting imprint into the skin of his knee, like a branding, or a tattoo. He knows it’s vain, but there are times when he wonders what might have happened had they not been interrupted by a client that night.

The problem is that all those indicators of John’s infatuation and romantic interest lie in the past. He has returned to Baker Street, yes, but their friendship is strictly platonic now, and a very reserved, careful and even somewhat distant one as well. There is virtually no physical contact. Very few words are exchanged between them. With John working long shifts at the surgery again, it means that for most of the day he isn’t even around. When he returns in the evenings, he is tired and more often than not he retreats to his bedroom after a silent dinner. No more are the evenings spent with crap telly or, better, with casework.

Sherlock isn’t quite sure yet what exactly he wants from John, but it’s more than his silent, occasional presence in the flat and the odd cup of tea, that much he knows. Things won’t ever be the same as before the Fall. Sherlock doesn’t fool himself by wishing they were. They can’t be. Too much has happened since. Both of them have changed too much. But he knows that he loves John, deeply. And if John were willing, Sherlock would even try a romantic relationship with him, with everything that entailed, even sex, should John wish that. Sherlock has no experience that way, but he knows that he enjoys John’s proximity and his touch, and would be willing to experiment. He might actually enjoy it. That’s his hope, at least. Now the only thing needed is for John to realise that his weird flatmate is actually the best choice for him when it comes to a romantic partner – or any partner, really.

Sadly, though, John has not been very cooperative when it comes to Sherlock’s attempts at wooing him. Not that Sherlock has experience that way, either, sweet-talking Molly into allowing him access to Barts labs and bodies and his fake relationship with Janine aside. She, he is convinced, knew right from the start that he was using her to get at her boss, and used him in turn, fed up as she was with Magnussen’s cruelty. Sherlock’s inexperience with relationships, and the fact he literally copied every step of how to proceed in one from a book (or certain websites and message-boards teeming with well-meaning advice) must have been obvious to someone as clever as her right from the start. Sherlock has to admit he likes her for playing along as long as she did. Even though he wasn’t attracted to her, he found her company not only bearable but almost enjoyable, what with John gone. No comparison to John’s, of course, but better than his own. In a way, she seemed to sense his discomfort during those few times they touched or kissed, and never pressured him for more. He was a little touched when she admitted that she would have liked to sleep with him, at least once. Nobody ever expressed this wish before, The Woman’s teasing aside (which was just power-play, he is convinced). He and Janine have corresponded a few times since her move to Sussex. After the Moriarty stunt, in which she seems to have been involved as well, Sherlock enquired after the bees, which, thankfully, she has kept. He is tempted to visit, but doubts it would be welcome at this point. Janine told him she is still resentful and angry occasionally. But she is right. Under different circumstances, they could have been friends. Perhaps they will be, in time.

Things were surprisingly easy with Janine. But with John ... it’s not like it used to be, their tight friendship and easy rapport. John is so different now, as if a part of him has stayed behind in the house in Croydon he shared with Mary. And Sherlock, try as he might, can’t seem to find and revive the old John. He’s even attempted to provoke arguments, to shake John out of the grey stupor he seems to be caught in. A month ago, Sherlock laid waste to the kitchen with an experiment. He then proceeded to destroy John’s phone by placing it precariously on the mantelpiece from which it promptly fell onto the floor, shattering the screen. But the result was not the passionate reaction he had hoped for, but merely a sad, defeated shrug and a sigh from John. In the end, Sherlock cleaned up the mess in the kitchen himself and bought a new phone to try and make amends. John didn’t really react to this, either. Often, it feels like only half of him is sharing Sherlock’s quarters now. A shell, or a shadow, the sad ghost of the man he once was. Sherlock hates it, and hates his own inability to change it even more.

Sherlock had hoped that things would improve once John had settled back into the routine of Baker Street, but if the past months are anything to go by, this is unlikely to happen ever again. John has changed, and so has Sherlock. There is no way back to how they were, and he isn’t clear of the way forward. He does know, however, that he doesn’t want to lose John again. Not to another person, nor an ill-fated knife or bullet at a case.

So far, neither appear to be a threat. John hasn’t shown any indication of taking up dating again. A small mercy. Sherlock knows he couldn’t deal with having potential love interests of John’s around the flat. And cases have been rare, almost exclusively private ones, due to Lestrade refraining from involving Sherlock because apparently some information about his hand in Magnussen’s demise has been leaked to the Metropolitan Police. During a brief visit to Baker Street, Lestrade, his face and demeanour all apologetic and displeased about the situation, mentioned that the Police Watchdog were on to him, and that it was going to take a while for things to calm down again.

Officially, Sherlock has been pardoned for saving England from Moriarty’s criminal machinations and Magnussen’s involvement in them – at least that’s how Mycroft and Lady Smallwood have spun things to keep Mycroft’s troublesome little brother both alive and out of prison (basically the same thing). Unofficially, the world’s only consulting detective has more or less been confined under house arrest (or Greater London arrest, to be more precise). Baker Street is being watched continuously by MI5. It’s for John’s sake only that Sherlock hasn’t imploded from sheer boredom yet. Those few cases he’s been allowed to tackle have been easy ones, threes and one four at best. Better than nothing, for sure, but not satisfying, either. He needs a good one, and so does John, to shake him out of his depression. Some adrenaline would do him good, and a chance to prove himself useful by protecting Sherlock and acting as the conductor for his brilliance.

Sherlock looks up from the laptop (his own, he hasn’t used John’s ever since he moved back in) and studies the other as he unpacks the bags and his rucksack, one leg of his jeans still tied with a reflector band for cycling. Due to the heat, John must be sorry he didn’t wear shorts – Sherlock would have approved of the shorts, definitely. He looks sweaty, his clothes dishevelled. His hair is flattened on top of his head by the helmet he’s been wearing. It curls in his nape where the strands are still soaked with sweat. Traffic appears to have been a nightmare once again. Despite the band, his trouser-leg shows streaks of chain grease from where he had to stop suddenly and his leg brushed against the chain. Likely some idiot driver pulled up right in front of him, or someone took his right of way at a crossroads, forcing him to pull the brakes and dismount.

The new surgery in Islington John has been working at for almost five months now is well connected by Tube and bus. Nevertheless he has insisted on using his bicycle, claiming he needed to work out more at his age. Sherlock knows that the true reason is another one. Nobody in their right mind cycles in London for the sake of exercise, at least not during rush hour. For the sake of danger and excitement, though ... well, that’s something else.

Sherlock is in two minds about the cycling. One the one hand, every time John sets out on his old road bike, Sherlock can’t help feeling a frisson of worry. News about cyclists getting killed by HGVs or other vehicles on London’s roads are aplenty. Certainly John knows how to look after himself, but given the unpredictability of traffic, bad luck could strike at any time despite all care and caution. On the other hand, though, John does look more toned. Sherlock tries not to gaze at his thighs and calves for too long because it does funny things to his insides. He has lost weight, too, quite a lot. So much, in fact, that both Mrs. Hudson and indeed Sherlock have taken to nagging him to eat – quite a reversal of their usual roles, in Sherlock’s case.

The nagging is gentle, always gentle these days, though, to prevent John from suspecting any coddling, which he loathes. After the initial attempts at provoking a rise out of him proved counterproductive, Sherlock has taken to being cautious and considerate. It’s hard work, actually, as it doesn’t come to him naturally. Now, he carefully considers every utterance, every action so as not to upset John. Surely John has been through enough. He has every reason to be sad and angry, furious even, after what happened in the aftermath of the Magnussen disaster and the Moriarty mess.

During a thorough investigation conducted with Mycroft’s help, Mary turned out to be one of the (in her case reluctant) heirs of Moriarty’s empire after Sherlock’s Fall and Jim’s suicide. She managed to stay out of prison – and narrowly avoided being assassinated by other contenders for the vacant crown a few days before giving birth – by agreeing on a deal with Mycroft and several intelligence agencies to provide information about her ‘colleagues’. This landed her in a witness protection scheme so secret that so far not even Sherlock has discovered her current whereabouts. He believes her to reside in either the United States or Australia now, but he isn’t sure, and Mycroft refuses to cooperate. Objectively, Sherlock understands his reasons. Mary, and the baby as her pressure point, are in grave danger. Nevertheless he hates his brother for his cold-bloodedness in sending them away. Not for his own sake, but for John’s. He has a right to know where his ex-wife and especially his daughter now reside. In fact, Sherlock believes that by letting both disappear, Mycroft is mostly to blame for John’s current misery.

Officially, Mary Elizabeth Watson neé Morstan is dead. Tragic complications during and after the birth of her daughter brought about her demise. Officially, John is a widower. Officially, his daughter was stillborn due to a severe genetic defect. Unofficially, though ...

They don’t talk about it. They never talk about it. Whenever Sherlock tries to raise the subject – not because he wants to, necessarily, despite being curious – but rather because even he knows that John is not okay with the situation – John gives him a look that makes the words dry up in his throat. It’s a look of pleading and warning both. So Sherlock doesn’t ask what he wants to ask, doesn’t mention either Mary or the baby, doesn’t enquire whether John is okay. The latter would be moot, anyway. John would claim that yes, he is, of course. Fine, just fine. And his entire body, from the clenching of his hand and the thin, straight line of his mouth, but most of all his eyes and the defeated look in them would betray him. So Sherlock keeps his silence, watches John suffer quietly, while suffering as well for his inability to help him.

Because it’s obvious. In whatever light John ended up seeing his estranged wife, there was a time when he did love her, and a part of him, Sherlock is convinced, loves her still – her, or rather, the image of funny, witty, resourceful Mary Morstan she projected so skilfully. After all, she helped John get over Sherlock’s death, was there for him when he was suffering pain caused by his best friend. Sherlock suspects that her starting to work at John’s old surgery during his time abroad was no coincidence. She was clearly monitoring John, probably looking for signs of him contacting Sherlock. Falling in love with John – and he believes that her feelings for his friend were at least in part genuine, based on what little first-hand knowledge he has of matters of the heart – must have come as a surprise to her, too. Another victim of a random stroke of sentiment. John has a tendency to cause that in people. But Mary’s affection did not extend as far as being honest with John right from the start. Sherlock has made the mistake of lying to him, too, and has paid a bitter price. Mary seems to have got off fairly easily. It’s John, once again, who ends up bearing the burden. Sherlock hates the injustice of it all.

He doesn’t quite know how to regard Mary. A part of him resents her, deeply, for what she has done to John, the anguish she has caused him and is, in a way, causing him still. There is also the undeniable fact that she shot Sherlock, through the heart, too. According to John who read his medical records, Sherlock flatlined in the ambulance, again on the operating table, and almost a third time back at the flat after the Leinster Gardens episode. So in a way, she killed him. The surgeons gave him up for dead until somehow, miraculously, his heart started beating again. That, at least, is what John told him later, in a soft voice both awed and angry. Sherlock can only try and imagine the stress and uncertainty John sat through while he was being cut open. Not an easy thing to forget, or forgive, then. Whether Mary truly intended a kill shot is moot at this point, even if she did call an ambulance from Magnussen’s office. She aimed at Sherlock’s chest and pulled the trigger. Balance of probability was that he’d die. People do, from shots to the heart. And she didn’t exactly show remorse afterwards.

Also, if Mary’s questionable deed and all the uncertainty and muddled feelings surrounding here weren’t enough, there’s the matter of the baby. John wasn’t supposed to see her. Even Sherlock had tried to prevent it initially, foreseeing that Mary was about to vanish (or be vanished) and most likely was going to take the little one with her. He thought if John was being kept from seeing his child, it would soften the blow of losing her. Maybe it would have. He doesn’t know. He isn’t good with these things.

And more than once, making choices for John has turned out disastrously wrong, as John told him in a rare fit of outward, passionate anger, slamming a hand on the table next to Sherlock while he was conducting a sensible experiment, making the test tubes and other apparatus clink and rattle. They had a bit of a row, then. Unfortunately, before anything truly important could be said, John stormed off, yelling about needing air. He took his bicycle and rode for about two hours, not even wearing a helmet or a jacket, and returned wet and cold and dirty. Sherlock had tried tracking his phone to see where he was, worried about his safety, only to discover the device in John’s room. With great relief he greeted John’s weary footsteps on the stairs, and braced himself for John’s reaction to the state of the bathroom – no disaster zone for a change, but with a bath drawn and candles lit. John hadn’t mentioned it, but had made Sherlock tea later, and thus, Sherlock assumed, peace was made, or at least an armistice reached, heralding yet another phase during which they didn’t talk about things.

When it came to his daughter, however, John made his own choice. John, clever, ingenious John, slipped out from under Sherlock’s watch during a brief moment Sherlock spent in the loo (betrayed by his transport once again), evaded surveillance and showed up at the hospital in the middle of the night. Mary was asleep and the staff of the maternity ward were occupied elsewhere, and so John dodged security by slipping into her room wearing a doctor’s coat and pretending he worked on the ward. He saw and actually held his daughter. At times, Sherlock had entertained doubts that the little girl was actually John’s, but the result of the paternity test was clear on that front.

Sherlock never found out how Mary named the baby. He met John in the hospital. There is a small room in his mind palace where this scene is stored in vivid, heart-breaking detail. He’s tried to lock the door but sometimes, it simply opens on its own accord, soft light and the gentle sound of John whispering to his newborn child spilling out. Because Sherlock happened upon him holding her, looking shocked and sad and happy in a way Sherlock hadn’t encountered in John before.

The girl was awake, a tiny bundle with a wrinkled face like a little red raisin, wrapped in a colourful blanket and wearing a knitted hat with ears that made her look like a small bear. Her features clearly denoted her parentage. She looked like a crumpled up miniature version of both John and Mary, her expression one Sherlock recognised from John: a furrowed brow and downturned corners of her mouth as if disappointed at the world in general. She was even clenching her tiny fists.

Looking at this miniature female John in her father’s arms, Sherlock felt a stirring in his chest he hadn’t anticipated. He had always considered the baby as the ultimate threat to his and John’s friendship, the wedge that would slowly but surely drive them apart and leave him behind to live out the rest of his existence in lonely solitude. He had secretly hated the little creature – until he saw her, and realised how much she meant to John who, in the months he had spent at Baker Street supervising Sherlock’s recovery, had barely mentioned her or impending fatherhood. Seeing her in John’s arms, taking in his teary-eyed expression, and even more his own reaction to the display, had shocked Sherlock to the core. This baby was part of John, so if he loved John, he’d better love her, too.

And what was more, John seemed grateful for his presence. In this moment, so important for John, he was relieved to have his best friend at his side. He raised his eyes from his daughter’s face and gazed at Sherlock, his expression full of wonder. Sherlock knew that the vow he had made at the wedding to always protect all three of them truly extended to the little one (although Mary’s status had become a bit more questionable). John smiled at him, beckoning him closer. Sherlock advanced, his heart pounding when John indicated he should hold out his arms. He did, hesitantly, anxious about what was to come. After all, who in their right mind would entrust Sherlock Holmes, self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath, with a newborn? Well, John Watson, apparently.

The little human was placed in Sherlock’s arms, and he felt her weight and the warmth she exuded from under the ridiculous hat and through the blanket and romper. She smelled strange, like babies do, apparently, but unusual and unique to him. Her tiny hand grabbed one of his fingers and held on with surprising strength. Then her eyes opened slowly, the colour a deep blue like John’s. Sherlock knew she couldn’t really see him yet. Nevertheless, he felt that her gaze went right into his chest. He knew, then, that he was well and truly hooked. John was standing next to him, smiling so softly and happily that Sherlock had to swallow round a sudden lump in his throat.

Of course the moment couldn’t last. Not long after, Mycroft’s security detail descended upon them and (rather forcefully) removed them back to Baker Street. The next day, mother and child were gone to an undisclosed destination. New name and identity for Mary and a name of her choosing, as she had announced at Christmas, for the girl.

A distraught John was left behind, with his feelings and allegiance cast into disarray. Even Sherlock feels the loss whenever he dares to look into that special room in his mind palace. Sherlock doesn’t know whether John is mourning losing Mary, too. On one of the rare occasions he actually mentioned the marriage, John seemed glad it was over and that moreover he didn’t have to deal with divorce arrangements thanks to Mary’s supposed death.

But the child, Sherlock knows, is an entirely different matter. She might as well be dead. John will in all likelihood never see her again. He will not witness her grow up, learn to walk and talk and ride a bicycle. He will not see her first smile or her scraggly sketches. He won’t scold her about drawing on the wallpaper, won’t take her to school and music lessons and football practice. And yet she is his daughter, alive and growing up somewhere on this planet, a little girl with dark blonde hair and blue eyes and John’s nose and thin lips, and perhaps his dry humour and staunch loyalty and need for excitement, too. And he will never know what her voice sounds like, will never hear her call him ‘da’ or ‘daddy’ or ‘old man’.

No wonder he is tense and angry all the time. Sherlock himself feels cheated out of the opportunity to watch this miniature John grow up, to teach her things, and to see John smile as he watches his best friend interact with his daughter. John has smiled so little of late.

Sherlock sighs and shifts the laptop on his legs. This won’t do. Time to launch another attempt at reviving the old John, the John before he became a widower and mourning father with a murderer for a best friend. A case has materialised in Sherlock’s inbox. The email has been sitting there for a few hours, followed up by a second message just half an hour ago, it’s tone decidedly more desperate and pleading than the first. Initially, Sherlock was tempted to delete both. There are several reasons why the case offered to him is unappealing despite certain points of interest.

Sherlock skims over the emails once more and makes up his mind. John definitely needs a distraction, otherwise he’s going to take the shortcut across two busy and exceedingly dangerous crossroads soon instead of cycling the slightly longer route on the designated cycle path. Sherlock knows that losing John to something as trivial as a traffic accident after all they’ve been through would utterly destroy him. Well, losing John in any form would destroy him. But if things continue the way they have been going lately, there is a good chance that John will end up under a lorry because of his recklessness, meaning Sherlock needs to provide alternative thrill and excitement. And they haven’t had a decent case in weeks, what with summer apparently sending all criminals worth their mettle out of sweltering London, and Lestrade still playing it safe with his superiors and not calling for Sherlock’s help.

Therefore, “We have a case,” Sherlock announces in lieu of an answer to John’s question. John puts away the last of the eggs and then stoops to remove the reflector band round his leg. Sherlock tries (seriously) to not ogle his backside as he bends over, and fails. After all, as he justifies his interest to himself, there definitely is some aesthetic appeal. If only that were all, Sherlock sighs internally. Things would be much easier if everything was down to mere aesthetics.

“Oh?” asks John when he emerges again, his face neutral as always of late. At least at first glance it seems neutral. To his surprise, Sherlock detects a spark of what seems to be genuine interest. A novelty these days. Sherlock is delighted, particularly when John wants to know, “Anything interesting?”

Sherlock shrugs. “The case looks to be a five or six at least. That, however, is without taking into account that it involves some members of my family and another feature I am not sure is appropriate for the ... situation right now. You can easily deduct one or two points for that alone.”

Folding his canvas bags and putting them into his rucksack, John steps into the living room. Judging from his stance and impression, he is curious, even intrigued. Neither tense nor angry. Excellent. However, Sherlock hopes his mood won’t change once he’s learned what the case is about.

“What situation?” asks John.

Sherlock lets out a breath. The case is hardly ideal, but it will have to do – if John wants to take it. Sherlock will leave the decision to him, in the hope that John will appreciate that. He nods towards John’s armchair for him to sit down. When John has settled, he hands over the laptop. “Here, read for yourself.”

**– <o>–**

 

 _July 1987_

“We’ll let you out when you apologise,” sneers Daniel through the small gap between the wardrobe’s massive doors. Sherlock can see a sliver of his brown hair and his slightly sunburned face, which are presently replaced by his younger brother Christopher’s freckled nose.

“And only then,” the eleven year old points out, wagging a finger in front of the gap.

Sniggers sound from the other three boys in the room: Daniel’s and Christopher’s cousin Tom, and two of their friends from the neighbourhood the names of whom Sherlock has deleted. He did, however, deduce their circumstances, and told them that their parents were filing for divorce, which caused him to end up in the wardrobe in the first place. No amount of struggling, scratching and biting, or rudimentary Judo sufficed to wind him out of the grip of five strapping boys, all older, taller and stronger than himself. Sherlock rubs the arm they twisted, glad that it isn’t broken. Tom, the eldest of the bunch at fourteen has actually hurt Sherlock’s wrist by bending it rather badly, but Sherlock is too proud to mention it to his aunt and uncle.

Not that any of the adults would hear him at the moment, anyway, locked away as he is in his cousin Daniel’s wardrobe with the door of his room closed as well for good measure. And he mustn’t display any weakness whatsoever, he knows from experience, because Daniel and Tom and their band of cronies will latch onto it and tease and bully him relentlessly, calling him ‘crybaby’ and ‘wimp’, or worse.

Rubbing his wrist and trying to shift between trainers and winter coats to sit a little more comfortably, he sniffs. “I won’t apologise for pointing out the truth,” he calls back stubbornly, trying to sound confident and unconcerned.

They’ll let him out eventually. He’ll be missed at tea. On the other hand, being stuck in the wardrobe actually isn’t so bad compared to the alternative of having to endure the other boys’ taunts and mockery and downright cruelty for the rest of the afternoon. At least in here, they can’t touch him, and he has time and leisure to think. And Sherlock isn’t like that. He doesn’t cry easily, and almost never from physical pain. And what’s wrong with crying, anyway? He did shed tears when Redbeard was put down, and why not? Redbeard had been his best (and only) friend. Sherlock found it perfectly all right to weep for him.

But for the five boys, crying equals weakness. Because they don’t know what real sorrow is like. Daniel didn’t even realise when his hamster died because his parents replaced it in secret. Sherlock noticed, of course, because he notices things. The new hamster has a darker coat and larger eyes. It makes slightly different sounds, too. Sherlock notices small things like that, things others overlook, and then points them out to people. That’s why they loathe him most of the time. He hasn’t told Daniel about the hamster yet. Perhaps he should. He decides to save it as ammunition for when things get even worse and he needs something powerful to hurl back at his tormentors.

“Better leave him in there for the rest of the day,” he hears Tom say. “That way, we won’t have to drag the Freak along. Whose idea was it to invite him to your birthday, anyway, Dan?”

“Not mine,” grumbles Daniel. “My Mum’s and his, I think. And he’s not just staying until tomorrow or the day after, what’s worse. My Aunt and Uncle went to America for some conference, I think, and they dropped him off here to stay with us for the entire time. He’s going to be around for two weeks at least, can you imagine? Guess his parents didn’t want him on their holiday, either, stupid freak that he is. Here, put the chair in front of the doors so he can’t get out even if he manages to open the lock and bolts from the inside.”

The scraping sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor can be heard, followed by a thud when it hits the door. Sherlock sighs. So much for trying to escape on his own. It would have been easy to open the bolts and then simply push open the doors despite them being locked. Apparently he is well and truly stuck in here. Ah well, could be worse. The only thing he rues slightly is the lost opportunity to go and explore the countryside. There is a hill near the village that looked promising on the drive to his cousins’ house. He recalls wanting to go there the last time he was here and had to endure birthday celebrations, but the weather was bad that day, and then he had the accident, and they had to drive to A&E.

“If you start to cry or tell mum or dad tonight, you’ll be sorry for that, Sherly,” Daniel informs him grimly.

“More sorry than even you can imagine in your twisted little mind,” adds Tom ominously.

“Have fun in the wardrobe, Freak,” pipes up Christopher, and all the boys giggle.

“But don’t think of doing anything to my Adidas trainers, or we’ll dump you in the toilet next time,” warns Daniel.

“Yeah, head first.”

More laughter. Someone knocks against the door before the group withdraws. “Wanna go outside and ride BMX?” asks one of the neighbour boys, Ben or Tim or something.

“Can’t,” replies Daniel. “Ran over a nail yesterday. One of the tyres is flat. I need Dad to repair it later when he’s back from work.”

Sherlock snorts with derision. He learned to dis- and reassemble his bicycle two years ago when he was only eight. And Daniel is turning thirteen tomorrow as he keeps reminding everybody whether they want to hear it or not, and he can’t even repair a punctured tyre or inner tube. Stupid idiot. But then, both his cousins are morons, Sherlock decided several years ago. And their cousin Tom is an even greater one. As for the two village idiots they call their friends ... well, better not waste a thought on their subterranean intelligence.

Not for the first time since his arrival in the morning, Sherlock wishes his brother Mycroft were here. Mycroft is seven years older than him, almost an adult now, and he would have protected Sherlock from the other boys’ malice. Most of the time, Mycroft is a rubbish big brother for sure. He used to be all right until he left to attend this posh school and only came home during term breaks, all pompous in his navy jacket and the silly boater, blown up with his own importance. And soon he’ll move on to university, and become even more unbearable, Sherlock is convinced. But when he is around, Mycroft does have his uses. He always feels protective of Sherlock, so much so that his younger brother sometimes resents him for it. And he is one of the few people apart from Mummy and to some, different, degree Father as well who Sherlock feels are his intellectual equals. Most other people are idiots who simply don’t understand him or even remotely share his interests, who won’t immediately lose against him at chess, who like to listen to him enthuse about bees or other natural phenomena, and who don’t tell him to shut up and piss off when he tries to deduce them.

Yes, Mycroft used to be okay until he felt the urgent need to grow up. He’s even taken to always carrying an umbrella with him now, like a proper grown-up person. Sherlock thinks it’s stupid. Moreover, Mycroft has become unbearably smug because he is always, always right. About everything. He always warned Sherlock not to trust the other children or try to be friends with them because they would inevitably let him down. And of course he was right about that, too. Insufferable, really. Sherlock misses him, regardless.

Well, their cousins and their cronies are the best example of what Mycroft warned him against. Sherlock actively dreaded having to attend Daniel’s birthday because of cause he anticipated getting harassed and bullied. Last year they chased him with their bicycles until he managed to scramble over a fence. He promptly fell down the other side, cutting himself on a rusty nail, the wound deep enough to justify a visit to Worthing Hospital, three stitches and a tetanus jab. His cousins claimed it had all been his own fault. He should have known the fence wasn’t strong enough to bear his weight. Everybody in the village knew that, after all, ever since Clara Kennings had climbed it to look for her lost cat and had fallen as well.

The year before that Sherlock ended up spending half an afternoon in the large wooden chest in the attic with Daniel and Christopher sitting on top of it, taunting him, and laughing when he told them he was having difficulties breathing. In both cases he got back at them for their malice, hiding their favourite toys, deducing their fears and weaknesses mercilessly and openly to their hangers-on (for example that Christopher still wet the bed occasionally, and that Daniel was mortally afraid of spiders). His retaliations did not endear him to his cousins, of course, and so each consecutive encounter got worse, with hardened fronts and an unwillingness to make peace on both sides.

He ought to be glad, Sherlock thinks as gloomily, he stares at the dark door in front of him, that he got only locked in here and not dumped in the toilet or the rubbish bin right away. On the other hand, this is only the first day, and not even the dreaded birthday yet. For the actual event tomorrow, Daniel has invited ten boys in total, or so he boasted, not counting his brother and Sherlock. Sherlock dreads having to deal with even more amassed stupidity, and, worse, hostility. Perhaps he should stay in the wardrobe for the entire fortnight. At least that way, there’d be a chance for him to remain relatively unscathed.

How on earth did his parents imagine that leaving him in this dratted house for two weeks would be a good idea? He doesn’t get along well with other children, his school records show that all too clearly. And his cousins actually loathe him, as much as he loathes them. Sherlock doesn’t have friends, he doesn’t want friends. He just wants to be left alone. Yes, actually being stuck in this wardrobe isn’t too bad, he decides. Could be a bit roomier, and one of the pairs of trainers is rather smelly. A book and a torch would be good, though, to while away the time, and something to drink. But as for lack of company ... he certainly won’t complain about that, particularly because the only true friend Sherlock has ever had is gone now.

Sherlock bites his lower lip as he tries not to think about Redbeard. The memory is still fresh and hurts, oh, how it hurts. He’s tried to lock it away, delete it as Mycroft told him he should, but he finds he can’t. Maybe he’s not yet good enough at this deleting thing, at compartmentalising his feelings and shutting away certain memories that pain him. Mycroft has mastered it, he is sure. There are few things his brother seems to truly care about. He snorted with derision when Sherlock implied (solely to get a rise out of him), that he was reaching the age normal boys were looking for girlfriends – or boyfriends, given that Mycroft attends an all boys school with very little opportunities to meet members of the other sex.

“Caring is not an advantage,” Mycroft had told him, sternly, no doubt referring to the entire Redbeard mess. Sherlock has tried to live by his word. It’s awfully difficult, though. It doesn’t seem right. And deep down, although he would never admit it, Sherlock is almost certain that Mycroft cares for him. A great deal, too. Or he used to, at least, before he became all grown up and armed himself with his umbrella and his unbearably smug expression. But isn’t that another thing his brother has told him repeatedly: don’t get too dependent on others, because they will let you down. They will leave, they always do, and you will be left behind, alone, and, worse, lonely. Redbeard left, or rather, was taken. Grandma left, too, some years ago, and even though Granddad is still there, physically, he barely remembers and recognises his family any longer.

Brought on by his maudlin thoughts, perhaps, the gloom surrounding Sherlock suddenly appears to be much darker. The air feels increasingly stuffy. Likely he’s used up most of the oxygen by now. Sherlock swallows against the sudden lump in his throat and angrily wipes at his eyes which have begun to sting, from the dust in the wardrobe, he tells himself. Suddenly angry, he kicks at the door. It barely moves.

“Oi, quiet in there, freak,” calls Daniel, thumping his fist against the wardrobe so hard that the coats sway and brush against Sherlock’s hair.

There is the sound of a computer starting up. Likely, the boys are going to play _Winter Games_ on Daniel’s new Atari now. Sherlock has never understood what’s supposed to be fun about wagging a joystick around or stupidly hitting the same key over and over again to get a tiny pixelated figure to move, but his cousins can’t seem to get enough of it. Sherlock is convinced that the computer could be put to other, more fascinating uses, but of course they won’t let him anywhere near it. It’s the apple of Daniel’s eye. Not even Christopher is allowed to play on his own, much to his chagrin.

Quite soon, Sherlock gets bored listening to the other boys’ voices as they squabble about the joystick and what sport to play. He busies himself with removing all the shoelaces from Daniel’s trainers and either knotting them together with the most complicated knots he knows, or switching them. Afterwards, he begins to search the pockets of the jackets and coats for anything entertaining or otherwise useful. They don’t yield much, apart from some string, chocolate bar wrappers, dry peas and small stones for Daniel’s sling, and something that feels eerily like the half-eaten remains of a mince pie. Sherlock decides not to investigate that particular pocket further. The best find is a half-empty packet of Hubba Bubba (strawberry flavour). Sherlock is thirsty, so he peels off the paper and stuffs two gums into his mouth. He doesn’t care much for the flavour, but he already has several good ideas what to do with the gums once he chewed them for a bit.

Outside the wardrobe, Tom demands something to drink, and the boys decide to go downstairs and get themselves some lemonade, and perhaps an ice-lolly, too. Sherlock sighs. An ice-lolly would actually be rather nice right now. The Hubba Bubba is tasting stale already. Time to deposit it in one of Daniel’s shoes where he won’t be able to immediately see it.

Before the boys leave, they shove another piece of furniture in front of the wardrobe for good measure. Daniel pounds against the door again. “Still alive in there, freak?”

“Yes. I may need the toilet soon, though.”

The boys laugh. “Bad luck for you. We won’t let you out again. You can piss your pants for all that we care.”

Sherlock expected that. He heaves a dramatic sigh, loud enough for them to hear. “Ah, well, how lucky for me that there are so many shoes and clothes in here to use instead of the loo, should the need get too great. Looks I’ll have to piss in _your_ pants, Daniel. Not that this would make their smell any worse.”

A shocked outcry sounds from Daniel. He’s a bit vain, and actually takes great care of his clothes. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.”

There is a whispered consultation. The chair and whatever else was blocking the doors (small chest of drawers?) are being removed. The doors are unlocked and pulled open. Tom, Daniel and the larger of the neighbour boys loom in their stead, with Christopher and the other one bringing up the rear.

“We’ll let you use the loo,” declares Daniel magnanimously. “But after that, it’s the sea-chest in the attic again. Less stuff for you to spoil in there.”

Tom and Daniel reach inside to try and grab a hold of Sherlock. He manages to evade them by lashing and kicking out, keeping them at bay for a while until the taller neighbour boy simply shoves them aside and throws himself on top of Sherlock, smothering him with a winter coat he has plucked from a hanger. Sherlock has to commend him for thinking for a change. With no chance to move his limbs properly, Sherlock can’t prevent the boys from dragging him out of the wardrobe, all five holding on to him and Tom rapping him round the head for good measure.

“Hey, what happened to my trainers, you tosser?” cries Daniel.

“Redistribution of laces,” mutters Sherlock. That cuff from Tom really hurt, but he’s trying not to let it show. Someone pulls the coat off his head. It’s still wrapped rather tightly round his arms and shoulders, preventing him from moving his arms and making him feel hot and stuffy.

“You little freak,” Daniel spits at him hotly. “You’re such a wanker.”

“Haha, he won’t even know what wanking is,” puts in Tom, who clearly has experience that way, with the stash of his father’s old magazines hidden under a bit of loose carpet in his room. Sherlock decides not to point that out. His situation is bad enough. Therefore, he doesn’t mention the gum in the Adidas trainers, either.

Daniel and the neighbour boys giggle. “Off into the toilet with you,” says the larger one and deals Sherlock a hard shove that would have sent him to the ground but for the others holding on to him. Together, they drag him down the corridor.

Tom pulls off the key from the inside of the bathroom door and grins wickedly. “We should just lock him here,” he suggests. “That way, he can piss and shit as much as he likes. And he can eat toothpaste if he’s hungry. After all, we’re no monsters.”

The others seem to like the idea. It’s better than the chest in the attic, thinks Sherlock. “No, he’s the monster,” says Daniel darkly. “There’s something very wrong with his head, you know. Mum said he’s even been to a therapist, like a proper nutcase. He’s mental, that’s what he is.”

Sherlock has never experienced Daniel being so vile before. Even Christopher seems surprised and even slightly upset, judging from the nervous look he gives his brother and the way he bites his lower lip. Apparently Daniel is really angry about his shoes, or else he is trying to prove something to the other boys, particularly Tom whom he seems eager to impress.

“Yeah, he looks like a proper psychopath to me,” agrees Tom.

“High-functioning sociopath,” hisses Sherlock. He’s read the term in a book on psychology in preparation for his meeting with the therapist, and thought it’d be something to throw at people when they made assumptions about him. The doctor was okay, not a complete moron and clearly an expert in her field, but even she didn’t take Sherlock entirely seriously and was only prepared to listen to him for a while. The initial diagnosis was that he has ADHD, with further meetings required to decide whether some degree of autism is present as well.

He is actually annoyed about it all. He isn’t disturbed or unstable or anything of the kind. If they want to stick some labels to him, fine. He doesn’t care whether he has ADHD or autism or anything. It doesn’t change who he is. It doesn’t make him crazy. So he’s not like other children. So what? Mycroft isn’t, either. Nobody dragged _him_ to a therapist. No child is like the others. At least he doesn’t wet his bed still, or do cruel things to others like his cousins. It isn’t his fault that school is boring, causing him to devote his attention to things other than participating in class. After all, that way he can prevent his mind from dissolving and running out of his ears from sheer boredom. Mummy and Father are trying to keep him occupied at home as best they can, challenging him constantly with intellectual tasks, violin lessons, even allowing him to conduct experiments in Father’s shed in the garden. But even they can’t keep the boredom at bay sometimes. On those days Sherlock becomes unbearable. Even to himself. He hates himself during these times. When boredom strikes with full force, it’s like his own brain is tearing itself apart. But he isn’t a nutcase. Just ... different. If only people could see that, and accept him that way. And like him, too. Just a little sometimes would be nice. Like Redbeard did. He didn’t care what Sherlock was like. He just loved him unconditionally, like dogs do. And Sherlock loved him right back.

“Yeah, whatever,” sneers the taller neighbour boy. “Let’s wash his head.”

“In the toilet,” crows his brother.

Sherlock struggles, kicking against shins and twisting this way and that in the coat still wrapped around him. He manages to free himself of it by ducking down and sliding out of it, biting at Tom’s hand, and then by rolling out of the way of his stomping foot – Judo training has been good for something, after all – he avoids being grabbed again. Another roll transports him inside the bathroom. He throws the door shut and himself against it, panting. He knows he won’t stand a chance keeping it closed against the determined onslaught of the five boys. He prepares himself for a fierce but short struggle that is inevitably going to end with him doing a dive in the toilet.

“Boys, come downstairs, there’s some ice-cream for you. Also, Daniel, I need you to run over to Ellie’s and fetch some eggs and margarine. I’ve run out, and without them there won’t be any cake tomorrow."

Sherlock heaves a big sigh and sags against the door. Aunt Mabel’s call couldn’t have been timed any better. There is some grumbling from the other side of the door and some rather half-hearted pushes, but then, ”Coming, Mum,” calls Daniel.

The key is turned in the lock.

“Have fun in you natural habitat, freak,” he hisses to Sherlock.

“Don’t use words the meaning of which you don’t know,” Sherlock returns.

Someone kicks against the door, but then footsteps can be heard on the corridor and the stairs. Sherlock’s knees buckle and he sinks down with the door in his back. A narrow escape this time, and it bodes ill for the days to come. He should try and keep his temper and not provoke them further, otherwise he’ll probably end up in A&E again – or intensive care, if he’s really unlucky. Aunt Mabel and Uncle Richard are often away working, even now during the holidays, meaning that for most of the day, the boys are left to look after themselves with only Ellie, the elderly neighbour keeping an eye on them when she can pry herself away from the television. And last time Sherlock was injured, the grown-ups believed everything Daniel and Tom, and to some extend Christopher, told them. Moreover, Sherlock is convinced that Aunt Mabel truly thinks there’s something wrong with him. She only took him in out of pity and because she owes Mummy a favour for helping her find the new job.

No, he can’t stay here, he decides. He needs to get away. He could try and make his way to London and stay at Grandpa’s. He won’t recognise Sherlock, anyway, which in itself is quite sad but could be advantageous now. If Sherlock is really crafty, Grandpa’s carer won’t notice him for a while. At least there’d be enough food and a roof over his head. Sherlock doesn’t eat a lot, they wouldn’t notice if some extra portions went missing.

He could also try and reach Mycroft. Or head down to Worthing and spend the next two weeks at the beach, living of fish and seashells like the girl in _Island of the Blue Dolphins._ He might even meet a wild dog to defend him and keep him warm at night, and he could easily nick the occasional 99 or fish and chips from unsuspecting vendors or tourists. Yes, this sounds like a good plan.

Of course, there is a high likelihood that at some point, the police will be involved. Disappearing children are not good, even Sherlock knows that. But better scolded by the grown-ups than bullied by the boys. Moreover, being retrieved by the police and transported in one of their vehicles actually sounds like fun, enough to warrant a scolding and subsequent punishment.

Pushing himself up against the door and straightening his rumpled clothes, Sherlock takes stock of what the bathroom has to offer that could be useful for his expedition. He needs a towel. One should always have a towel at hand. He doesn’t remember who said this, but he trusts this person. His toiletries are already there, so he might as well take the entire small bag. Won-a-pa-lei didn’t have a toothbrush when she was stuck on the Island of the Blue Dolphins, but she of course had other problems there, and didn’t eat any sugar, either. Perhaps, Sherlock reasons, she used a stick or a self-made brush to get rid of the worst food leftovers stuck between her teeth. Sherlock is rather meticulous when it comes to dental care, mainly because he has seen so many people with frankly scary and disgusting teeth. He’d like to keep his own healthy, thank you very much. Healthy teeth, moreover, prevent frequent visits to the dentist. Sherlock hates going there. He also loathes going to the doctor, the barber, and to try on new clothes – basically any establishment where he is confined somewhere and must endure strangers prodding and touching him. It’s boring, and also gross. Sherlock doesn’t relish it.

Gazing around the bathroom with its pastel tiles (newly renovated, they used to be brown and orange until last year), he takes stock of what else he may need. Maybe he should take a roll of toilet paper. What do people use instead when they are lost in the wild? Leaves? Moss? For a moment, he entertains himself with the thought of his tormentors wiping their behinds with thistles and stinging nettles. What a pity that rosehips aren’t ripe yet. Otherwise, he could prepare the toilet paper with their itchy seeds. That’d be an interesting experiment, for sure. He stores it away for future use.

In the cupboard behind the mirror, he finds a small set containing scissors, tweezers and a nail file. That could be useful. There is nothing food-like in the bathroom, and no money, either. After some deliberation, Sherlock decides to escape first with the bare necessities, but to remain close yet well hidden until night-time. He has a room of his own, and he knows how to pick the lock of the backdoor. It won’t be a problem to creep into the house after darkness has fallen and the family are asleep.

He could even show up for dinner, he considers. His cousins won’t torment him with their parents present. He can go to bed early claiming tummy ache, and plan his expedition more meticulously in the privacy of the guest room (which he can lock against unwelcome intruders). Yes, this sounds like a good plan. Get out of the bathroom now and explore the countryside for the rest of the afternoon, and make the final escape tonight with enough resources to get him to either London or the beach.

He uses the loo, washes his hands and then drinks from the tap. Then he goes and presses his ear to the door for a while. Dimly, the other boys’ voices can be heard from downstairs. Eventually, they begin to get louder. Sherlock curses softly. He has tarried too long. Dashing to the other side of the bathroom and pushing open the window, he leans out and calculates his chances of surviving a jump onto the neat lawn below unscathed.

Sherlock is light and agile, but this is a height of about four metres. Not advisable if one wants to keep one’s knees and ankles intact. Luckily, some of the bathroom’s plumbing runs outside the house. Sherlock throws his small bag, the towel and the roll of toilet paper out of the window before climbing onto the sill. The nearest pipe is more than his arm’s length away. A rush of adrenaline makes his heart beat faster. This is going to be dangerous. Sherlock is delighted.

Outside the bathroom, footsteps can be heard getting closer. “It’s bath time for you now, freak,” roars Tom’s voice.

“Yeah, in the toilet,” crows Daniel.

Sherlock takes a deep breath. He squeezes through the window onto the outer windowsill, where, carefully, he rises to his feet with his front pressed against the window pane. Shuffling to his left, his fingers trying to find purchase in the contours of the window frame, he reaches the end of the sill.

The door of the bathroom rattles. Someone is unlocking it.

Sherlock swallows. He flattens himself against the bricks as best he can, one hand still holding on to the window frame and the other reaching out to the pipe. He stretches as far as he can, wishing he were taller. But his length suffices. His left foot and fingers touch the pipe, the foot finding purchase on one of the narrow metal rings used to fasten the pipe against the bricks.

The bathroom door is thrown open. Sherlock lets go of the window frame and pushes his right leg off the sill. For a horrible moment he thinks his other foot might slip, but then he’s clinging to the pipe with all his limbs.

“Shit, Freak’s gone,” one of the boys states the obvious. Morons.

“Quick, to the window.”

Sherlock scrambles down the pipe in record time, rather sliding than actually climbing, and tearing his jeans on a screw. He jumps the last metre and half, lands on an uneven bit of turf and rolls as he’s learned in Judo.

“Oi, Freak, don’t think you’ll get away!"

The cry sounds from the bathroom window where four-and-a-half heads (Christopher is somewhat pushed to the side) are gazing out furiously. Daniel squeezes out a fist and shakes it at Sherlock. “You’re gonna pay for that.”

Sherlock scrambles to his feet and picks up the bag and towel. “You’ll have to catch me first,” he challenges. Flipping them the two-fingered salute, he scoops up the toilet paper and dashes off towards the rear fence of the garden, towel and paper fluttering behind him like banners.

A furious cry sounds from the upstairs window. He knows they’ll be after him in hot pursuit now. Onto the bins and over the fence, he lands smoothly on the other side in a pile of last year’s leaves overgrown by weeds. Beyond there’s a ditch full of nettles, a road, and some meadows studded with trees, with a clump of denser trees covering the hillside above them.

They won’t be able to chase him on their BMX bikes there, they’ll have to run and he’s got a good head start. Grinning to himself, Sherlock grips his equipment more tightly and begins to seek a way through the nettles to reach the old plank that serves as a makeshift bridge across the ditch. A brief struggle later, he has safely made it onto the road, albeit with legs stinging from the nettles. He dashes across the road and looks for a hole in the dense hedge on the other side. A narrow tunnel that looks like it was made by some kind of animal, a fox, maybe, looks just big enough for him to crawl through. Behind it, a large, sunny pasture extends to the distant grove. Sherlock scrambles through the scratchy tunnel. The meadow isn’t empty. Cattle are grazing there, most of them lying in the shade of some solitary oaks chewing the cud and eyeing him solemnly. He hopes they’re not Farmer Roberts’ dreaded bulls. He’s heard stories about them and doesn’t wish to encounter them in person. Then again, he’d rather face the bulls than his cousins. But these animals look docile enough. He decides to stay as close as he can to the fence, and the hedge that runs alongside, ready to duck under it should the animals decide to attack him.

Beyond the hedge, angry voices can be heard. With a little luck, they won’t notice which way Sherlock has gone. Smiling to himself, he sets out towards the distant woods. Things can only improve from now on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The illustrations for chapter 1 are "The Baby" and "The Wardrobe"  
> 


	2. The Dew Pond

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for comments, kudos and bookmarks, and to rifleman_s for brilliant betaing. Next up is going to be chapter 15 of _Enigma_ , which is about half written. I hope to finish the first draft this week.

_July 2016_

Over fingers steepled beneath his chin, Sherlock watches John closely while he is reading the email, looking for signs of distress. But apart from a slight frown, John’s expression remains one of curious interest eventually turning into worry and even anger.

Sherlock recalls the wording of the first email in his mind:

 

_from: v.warrington@yahoo.co.uk_

_to: sherlock.holmes@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk_

_Dear Mr. Holmes,_

_I don’t know if you remember me, but we met briefly some years ago at the funeral of my husband Daniel’s parents – your aunt and uncle, Mabel and Richard – after their boating accident in the Caribbean. I recall that you were about to leave for Florida and only stayed for the service, not the reception._

_I know that your relationship with my husband has never been the best. Nevertheless I hope you can forgive past hurt, Mr. Holmes. We need your help. Urgently._

_This morning our girl, Tiffany (she’s ten) did not return from a friend’s, after staying with her over night, although we were told that she did indeed sleep there and left after breakfast, as agreed. It’s only a ten minute walk home, which she has taken many times before. None of the neighbours saw her, nor were any strangers or unfamiliar cars around at that time. But she hasn’t come home since, and when we returned home after looking for her all morning and afternoon, a letter had been dropped through our letterbox. I’ve attached a photograph. The envelope was plain with no stamp and no address._

_As you can see, it states that she has been taken and strictly warns against involving the police. There has not been a ransom claim as yet, but the kidnapper mentions they will be in touch. Daniel wants to disregard it. One of his friends works for Worthing Police, and he said that we shouldn’t handle this ourselves. We’ve just had a major row when I told him I was going to write to you. He doesn’t believe you could possibly help. I disagree. I’ve had a look at your website and your partner’s blog, and what I read there makes me confident that you are the very person we need. Whatever Daniel thinks of you. I’m disinclined to listen to him. Things have been ... tense between us for a while now, and this may well be the breaking point. I’m sorry to bore you with these details. I understand Daniel and you have never been friendly, but we are desperate to get our daughter back, so he might as well swallow his pride._

_Money is not an issue – nor an incentive for you, from what I gathered –, and I can’t promise that the case is interesting enough for your standards. But please, Mr. Holmes, there is a child’s safety and perhaps even life at stake here. Please help us, and if only for the sake of the distraction._

_Sincerely,_

_Vanessa Warrington_

 

The attachment is a photograph of what looks to be an A4 sheet of paper, twice folded, smoothed out, and then refolded more accurately. Sherlock will require to have a look at the original and actually touch it to determine its make, weight and grain. It looks like normal 80 gsm printer paper, however, a bit crumpled up as if it has been handled for a while. It’s been folded to fit into a standard DL envelope. Sherlock will need to see that, too, particularly as there is no photo. He resents the fact that obviously, the Warringtons have handled both the letter and the envelope. So much for reliable fingerprints. They would have been difficult to obtain from paper, anyway. Perhaps some DNA sample can be retrieved from the envelope, in case it isn’t of the self-sealing kind and the kidnapper was stupid enough to lick it.

The message itself is short. The letters, interestingly, are stickers, all caps, the spacing even as if somebody took some care with their arrangement. The full stops and exclamation mark at the end are drawn in with a black pen. Obviously, the note wasn’t created in a hurry. It says:

 

WARRINGTONS I HAVE YOUR DAUGHTER. NO POLICE OR SHE WILL PAY. WAIT FOR MORE INSTRUCTIONS. NO POLICE!

 

Sherlock has to admit he is intrigued by the message, far more than by the weepy email. Its make is unusual. Who’d go and buy sets of letter stickers to create a message like that? Not entirely stupid, though. More efficient and less easy to trace than newspaper clippings. But why not use a computer and a printer? No access, maybe? And who delivered the message? The kidnappers themselves? Sherlock doubts CCTV has been installed in Washington. But there are neighbours, surely. Neighbourhood Watch Area, very likely. Nosy, attentive neighbours, then. Perhaps old Ellie next door is still around, she of the dense perm, stuffed poodle and well-stocked larder – although if she’s alive, she’s likely still hooked on crappy daytime television. Nevertheless, a stranger dropping off a message would surely been noticed. If it was a stranger. Perhaps whoever delivered the message was dressed as a mail- or delivery person, or a tradesman. There could be several people involved in this.

What remains even more obscure than the identity of the kidnappers is the motive. The Warringtons are well off. Sherlock has done some light research into their circumstances since receiving the initial email. Vanessa Warrington works for Worthing Council while Daniel is part of the management of a medium-sized IT company based near Brighton, with a subsidiary branch specialising in developing mobile apps based in London’s East End. Tiffany is their only child.

Even though he believed he had deleted the incident, when Sherlock thinks back to his aunt and uncle’s funeral and the other attendants, he remembers his cousins. Daniel had sat next to a slender woman with long dark-brown hair and an unspectacular, generic face. John would likely think her beautiful, Sherlock doesn’t recall anything remarkable about her. The only thing that caught his attention was the fact that she seemed to be pregnant – likely with Tiffany, then. The timing would be right.

Not much else of interest could be unearthed about Vanessa Warrington née Burns. Born in 1978, she has been working for Worthing Council for almost fifteen years, ever since graduating from the University of Reading with a BA in Business and Management, but with a five year break when she was looking after Tiffany until the girl went on to school. A former tennis player with some success as a teenager, active in the local community, went to Ibiza with a couple of female friends last year according to her Twitter account. Married Daniel, who apparently she met at a friend’s wedding, in 2005. Her looks haven’t changed much, her tweeted selfies reveal. She still appears to be working out occasionally (running, her figure suggests), but no longer plays tennis due to wrist surgery in 2011.

As for the girl, Tiffany, Sherlock has researched her as well, but apart from some mentions in the local newspaper lauding her success in a reading competition and prowess with arranging vegetables in animal shapes at a country fair, not much can be found about her. Those photographs Sherlock has been able to unearth (her parents were careful about posting images of her online) show a plain, somewhat freckly girl with straight brown hair like her mother, and her father’s blue eyes. In most photos, she doesn’t look directly into the camera, but appears to be far away with her thoughts. She doesn’t smile in any of the pictures.

Realising that he’s already deeply immersed in the case while officially he hasn’t even accepted it yet, he forces his attention away from the preliminary case wall he has created in his mind palace. John hasn’t made any indication so far of what he thinks of the matter.

Sherlock bends his eyes towards him, scolding himself from drifting off instead of watching John’s reactions to the email more closely for signs of potential distress. Secretly, Sherlock hopes John will want to take it. They need this. His mind craves the distraction. John needs a bit of thrill and the opportunity to prove himself useful. And getting out of London in this heat would be good as well. The city has been stiflingly hot and humid this past week. Sherlock loathes it. His thin shirt is already sticking to his back where he leans into his leather armchair. And John is too pale because he hasn’t been out and about in the sun much apart from cycling to work and occasional excursions into Regent’s Park when he claims to need ‘air’. It would do him good to get a bit of a tan, and hopefully regain a spark in his eyes.

Eventually, John looks up from the laptop, leaning back in his chair. “You are going to take it?” he asks.

Sherlock notices the absence of ‘we’. “You think we should?” he asks quietly, hiding his excitement.

“Of course I do,” returns John with surprising sharpness. “Kidnapped girl, warning not to involve the police at all costs for the safety of the child ... Sherlock, this mother actually pleads with you. We must take it. There are so many sick people out there. Imagine if she came to harm and we could have prevented it. And have you had a look at the photo they took of the message? It looks pretty ... weird, what with those stickers. The wording is strange, too. Doesn’t the puzzle interest you at all?”

Ah, and there it is. The spark. It’s there. Sherlock is delighted, delighted and relieved. He lowers his hands and leans forward, fixing John with a keen gaze. “Can you get leave from work tomorrow? Might need the rest of the week, too, depending on how the case develops.”

John nods. Sherlock is pleased by his forcefulness and genuine interest in the case, and even more by the new signs of life he detects in John’s eyes. It’s almost like having the old John back. He fervently hopes it’s not just a temporary improvement. He watches John’s forehead crease in a frown as he rereads the mail.

“Do you know where they live?” he wants to know.

“Washington,” replies Sherlock, who looked up his cousin’s current abode.

“Oh, that far away? Washington state or DC?” John asks. “Will we get permission to travel at such short notice? Not sure if you’ve still got one, but I’d need to apply for a Visa. And are you even allowed out of the country as yet, with the outcome of the Magnussen case still pending? And what about flights? They’re bound to be bloody expensive if we book last minute, and there’ve been so few cases lately that – ah, but they said money wouldn’t be an issue, so perhaps they’ll cover the costs.”

This is more than Sherlock has heard John say during all of yesterday. And the day before. He is delighted, and lets it show with a soft smile and a low chuckle. “Oh, I think we’ll manage to afford the journey even without the Warringtons covering travelling expenses, John,” he says airily. “Although I propose we rent a car instead of relying on the questionable services of Southern Rail.”

John frowns. “Southern Rail? What do you mean?”

Sherlock grins at him. “It’s Washington in West Sussex, not the US. It’s a small village in the South Downs, a little north of Worthing. It looks like Daniel inherited his parents’ house after they passed away.”

“Oh, right. Of course. She mentioned Worthing in the mail. Stupid of me. You know the place?”

“Yes,” replies Sherlock, hoping John isn’t going to enquire further. He isn’t keen on relating the previous times he was forced to stay in the village. In fact, he isn’t keen on returning there. A part of him isn’t, at least, recalling all the disasters that befell whenever he went. But another part of him feels strangely drawn – not to the house or the village proper, but to the landscape. Sherlock is surprised by that. He doesn’t particularly like the outdoors. London is his natural habitat. But there is a part of him that recalls, more clearly than he wants to remember, that for a few days during a splendid summer twenty-nine years ago, he was actually, genuinely happy. And, not long after, profoundly sad. A long time ago, but only if you measure it in terms of years (and where has he heard that line before? Must have been a film he watched with John … before).

A mixture of curiosity and, surprisingly, sentiment, even nostalgia is stirring in him. An entire section of his mind palace is dedicated to a few days in the summer of 1987, to the rolling hills of the Sussex Downs, to chalky white tracks cutting through springy turf, to small blue butterflies fluttering over harebells, to the scent of sun on skin, the sounds and smell of sheep, the taste of stolen scones and lemonade, the feeling of utter freedom. Sherlock hasn’t unlocked the gate to this section for a long time, although memories of that summer haunt his dreams from time to time, creeping up unbidden under the veil of darkness, and leaving a curious sense of undefined longing after waking up.

Even now, he needs to be vigilant lest they overtake him, lest the gate unlocks itself and they rush out like a pack of unruly hounds, wreaking havoc with the neat, careful order of his mind palace. He isn’t ready for that yet. There are reasons for locking away these memories. He cannot, he must not, revisit them now. Still, he wonders what will happen if he actually returns to the place, and sees the Downs and the Chalkhill Blues with his own eyes.

On the other hand, he is curious about the case. He doesn’t believe the child to be in true danger. The note from the kidnapper is fascinating, but there is something ... unprofessional and decidedly not scary about it. Doubtless, studying the original will reveal even more. Too early to theorise, though. He needs more facts, more data. Still, there are several routes this case could go down, and one is suggested rather strongly. Something else at work here other than a crime – unless, and one can never rule that out, Moriarty’s organisation is behind it, striking at the remote margins of Sherlock’s family now in order to fulfil Jim’s original promise to burn the heart out of him. As if they haven’t quite managed that already. Surely, even by their crooked standards, he has suffered enough by now because of what they have done to John, and caused him to do to protect him.

And if the case proves boring against expectations, at least there’s going to be the dark curiosity of watching his cousin flounder in what seems to be a marriage in trouble. After all the torment Sherlock endured from him during their childhood, the idea fills him with dark glee. John would scold him for his _Schadenfreude,_ but John doesn’t know what happened almost thirty years ago. Sherlock wonders how little he can get away with telling him to keep him content.

As if on cue, John glances at the mail once again, then looks at Sherlock questioningly. “There are relatives of yours involved in this. Your cousin and his family, right? Vanessa Warrington. Never heard you mention her before.”

“I don’t know her personally. She is the wife of one of my cousins from my mother’s side of the family. My mother’s sister Mabel married Richard Warrington and they had two children, Daniel, who apparently this Vanessa woman is married to, and Christopher.”

John nods. “The way you talk about them shows that you’re not close.”

Sherlock scoffs. “Apart from making a brief appearance at their parents’ funeral – and that only because Mummy insisted, threatening me with cutting off my finances entirely if I didn’t show up – I haven’t had any contact with Daniel for twenty-nine years, a fact appreciated by both sides, no doubt. And we weren’t close even then. Daniel and Christopher were idiotic bullies when we were children, Daniel more so than his younger brother. Their friends, or cronies, rather, were even worse. The few times I was forced to socialise with them routinely ended in disaster.”

“Ah, now I understand the careful, even deferential tone of the email. Wonder if the wife knows about her husband’s doings as a child? What kind of disaster?”

Sherlock touches the faint scar on his lower lip almost automatically. “I received this one summer when they chased me with their bicycles and I miscalculated the height and stability of a fence I climbed over to escape them, for example. I landed on a rusty nail and tore open my lip. Had to be stitched.”

John’s expression is a mix of righteous anger and, strangely, relief. Sherlock understands the former. He relishes it. It’s almost like the old times when John would defend him against all kinds of animosities.

The relief is harder to place, until Sherlock spots John’s twitching fist. Ah, of course. The Landmark. His badly timed and ill-fated return from the dead. John hit him that evening, almost broke his nose. Split his lip, too. Has he believed, then, that the scar was a result? _Did he not look at me closely enough to notice that it has been there all the time? Did we really share a flat for eighteen months and John never spotted the scar during that time? Likely yes. Shows what little interest he has in me. Not worthy of close inspection, am I?_

”What else happened?” John wants to know. “Your words implied that it wasn’t the only thing.”

Sherlock gives him a brief account of some other incidents of bullying, brief and to the point. John scowls afterwards. “And the parents didn’t notice? I mean, they must have seen something was wrong when you didn’t show up at mealtimes, or had minor – or larger – injuries when you did.”

“They were either working or otherwise occupied. Moreover my aunt was convinced something was genuinely wrong with me. I believe she only took me in out of charity, and because she felt obliged to my mother. Poor little Sherlock, he’s got no friends, therefore playing with other children for a change will be so good for him. Poor little Sherlock, who’s already seen a therapist at the age of nine and who almost had to repeat a year in primary school because he messed up. Poor little Sherlock, who clearly needs a specialist to set him right, because he’s some kind of crazy freak who’ll never lead a normal life. You can imagine how it went. And the boys weren’t entirely stupid. They made things look like accidents, told the adults I had head- or stomach ache and therefore wasn’t hungry, or that I was still playing computer games or something else and refused to come, which fit in nicely with the image of me as an outsider who insisted on doing his own thing. As if they ever let me touch their toys. And I didn’t speak up and complain. I should have, but it would only have made things worse once my aunt and uncle weren’t there. I did resent my own parents for dragging me to Washington for birthdays, though. They should have known better, but back then, Mummy truly believed that socialising with other children would do me good, knowing I didn’t much get along with people my age. She had the notion that playing with relatives, children I was somewhat familiar with, might help. The opposite was true, though. My cousins loathed me, and I them, too. And with their little gang all set against me, I stood no chance.”

“What a bunch of wankers, ganging up against you like that. Bet they were secretly jealous that you were so much smarter than they.”

Sherlock shrugs. “Perhaps. It’s long ago.”

John gives him a long, steady glance. Sherlock can read his thoughts. John has heard the taunts and the name-calling, at the Yard and elsewhere. Things have improved, but still there are many who consider Sherlock a freak, something other, unpredictable and dangerous.

John smiles grimly. “Hope you paid them back in some way.”

“I tried. I actually preferred it when they just locked me in the wardrobe or something similar and left me in peace otherwise.”

John’s eyebrows shoot upwards. “The wardrobe?” he asks with a faint smile.

Sherlock frowns at him. “I assure you, it sounds funnier than it actually was.”

“I bet. Must have been utterly boring to hang out in a bloody closet when the other boys were out playing and having fun – particularly for you. You get bored so quickly.”

“Well, you’d know about being stuck in the closet, wouldn’t you?” mutters Sherlock before he can censor himself.

Of course John has heard. Something flashes in his eyes. At first Sherlock thinks it’s anger, outrage, even. Surely John caught the implied meaning. A fierce denial will follow, the one Sherlock’s heard so many times before whenever people suggested they were more than flatmates and friends, when they thought the two of them were a couple. _John isn’t gay, that’s what he is going to claim. He isn’t. He likes women, was even married. See, there. End of discussion._

Sherlock has come to believe that John truly identifies as ... well, if not entirely straight, at least not as gay. Bisexual, perhaps, and closeted about that. And what does Sherlock know? He hasn’t even worked out in which drawer to put himself, how to label his own sexuality (none of the definitions he has come across so far seem to cut it, although demi-sexuality might come closest). He only knows that it’s tightly linked to his feelings for John Watson. He’s never been interested in sex before, never felt the desire to engage, and genuinely doesn’t understand people for whom it seems to be such a large priority in their lives. But with John, it has, over time, become an option. Maybe. He isn’t quite sure yet. _Perhaps,_ he thinks, _we’re both stuck in the bloody closet._

Whatever level of not gay John believes himself to be, it doesn’t account for whatever happened with Major Sholto (or didn’t – to his chagrin, Sherlock still doesn’t know anything certain, and of course he can’t ask John). It also doesn’t explain the long glances at Sherlock when John thought he wasn’t looking, the touches that lingered a little too long. The bloody knee-grope, it doesn’t explain that, for God’s sake. Not at all.

 _Perhaps,_ Sherlock thinks, _he really doesn’t know._ Perhaps John truly isn’t aware of this side of his nature. Maybe it was just the alcohol speaking that night. Or maybe his deductions are all wrong, too. Wouldn’t be the first time. There is something about John Watson that upsets the normal rules of observation and deduction. John is always a surprise, never boring. It’s one of the (many) reasons why Sherlock loves him deeply. Unfortunately, it makes reliable readings of John’s inner state impossible.

And even now, as so often, John surprises him. His gaze turns challenging, calculating. And there is something else, something Sherlock finds difficult to define. Is it, could it be ... relief? At what? At being found out? Out of the closet at last, is that it? Will John admit ... something? Anything?

Sherlock is floundering and doesn’t like it. He frowns, and his frown deepens when a wry smile tugs at the corners of John’s mouth and crinkles the skin round his eyes.

“And there you are,” he states, leaning back in his chair and clapping his hands together. Sherlock is absolutely confused. This isn’t his area, definitely.

“I’ve been here all the time,” he points out irritably.

“Have you?” asks John softly. “I’ve been wondering, to be honest. You’ve been ... different, lately.”

He raises a hand before Sherlock can object. Sherlock closes his mouth.

“I’ve been different, too,” John goes on. “I know that, and I apologise. I also know how you, in your own way, have tried to look after me, make things better. And I appreciate that, I really do, even if I haven’t told you before. You’ve been a good friend. You’ve cared for me when I didn’t really look after myself. I mean, you even drew me a bath when I was angry and tired and fed up with everything, and made me eat when I wasn’t hungry. Stuff like that. You even lit some fucking candles in the bathroom. _You._ ”

He licks his lips, obviously struggling with his next words. Sherlock watches him anxiously. This is Talking. They don’t Talk. John hates it. Sherlock does, too. It’s so fiendishly difficult, so fraught with sudden pitfalls so that usually, they avoid it. But it looks as if John isn’t finished yet. Sherlock has gripped the armrests of his chair in nervous anticipation. Hoping that John hasn’t noticed, he tries to relax his hands and steeples the fingers under his chin again, cursing himself when he feels them tremble ever so slightly.

Luckily, John seems preoccupied with his own thoughts and how to voice them. He draws a breath and continues: “But you haven’t been yourself, ever since ... don’t know. Since you returned, I guess. The Sherlock before the Fall wouldn’t have prepared me a bath with candles, or made me breakfast. Before, the kitchen would have been a biohazard zone, and the bathtub would have housed some weird creature or gross body parts. Pre-Fall Sherlock wouldn’t have planned my wedding. He’d have made some disdainful remark about the futility of marriage and voiced his disapproval of each and any of our choices. You never once tried to scare Mary away, like you did with all my previous girlfriends. Not once. I wondered about that, occasionally. It seemed strange to me that you two seemed to get on right from the start, like a house on fire. Until she shot you of course. You really didn’t suspect her to be anything other than she pretended to be, did you? Didn’t deduce anything off about her? I mean, there must have been something, some giveaway. Maybe not for me to spot, but for someone like you? There must have been. But whatever you saw, you didn’t mention it. You did nothing to make me doubt my choice. Now I kind of wish you had, but … Anyway, I don’t know why you behaved the way you did. Perhaps you were still trying to make amends, kitting our friendship. And I was glad to have you back. Still am. Very glad. But of late, I've been wondering how much of you actually came back. And what happened to you back then, wherever you were and whatever you did. You never mentioned anything about it, not even when I asked you about the scars on your back. I get that things were unpleasant and that you don’t want to be reminded of them. I understand. I’ve been in a war, remember, and I carry my own scars. So I won’t pry. But if you ever feel you need someone to listen, remember I’m right here, all right? And if you don’t want to talk to me, I can recommend Ella. She really knows her stuff and she helped me, whatever your brother’s opinion of her might be.”

Sherlock nods. He still isn’t sure where this conversation – or John’s monologue, rather – is leading, but he _is_ glad about John talking. So he sits and listens, and doesn’t interrupt.

“What I’m trying to say,” goes on John, obviously attempting to recapture his original topic, “is that lately, I’ve felt I don’t know you at all anymore. You’ve been so ... quiet, and not just in the ‘I don’t talk for days on end’ way. Considerate. I don’t know ... gentle, that’s the right term, maybe. And I appreciate that, Sherlock, like I said. I do, don’t get me wrong. It’s just ... I don’t want or need your pity. I want ...”

He makes a helpless gesture accompanied by a frustrated huff. “Truth is, I don’t know what I want. But I know what I don’t want: pity, coddling, the whole caring shebang. Not from you. I’m used to it from Mrs. Hudson. That’s fine. That’s what she’s like. It comes naturally to her. Even when Harry has the occasional caring fit – which isn’t like her, God knows – I can endure it, barely. She is allowed to be like this with me when she feels she needs to be, because I’m the same with her. And we’re siblings, even if we’re not very close. You know what I mean.

“But you ... you’re my friend. My best friend. And you’re not like this, normally. You didn’t used to be, anyway. You were the one who intimidated traumatised witnesses, who always spoke his mind without a filter – do you have any idea how refreshing that was? I often wished I could be like that. Sometimes when patients were particularly stubborn or stupid and insisted on antibiotics for colds or bullshit like that, I wished I could simply tell them to fuck off and drink some hot lemon, or to take a walk in the park to get their blood pressure down instead of insisting I prescribe them something against an affliction caused by sheer laziness. Or when there was another bigoted moron on the Tube proclaiming his racist or sexist bullshit for all to hear, I wished I could silence him with a few cutting words. Or when you have to deal with arsehole bureaucrats and similar officials. I often imagined being able to deduce them like you do, and to tell my deductions right to their face to take them down a peg or two. You giggled at crime scenes, decorated the wallpaper with bullet holes because you were bored, and kept nasty things in the fridge. That’s who you were. And I miss that Sherlock. I miss the good old days. Before ...”

He sighs, gazing at his hands. Sherlock is surprised. John can’t seriously miss the more smelly and dangerous experiments. He always complained about them, sometimes even threw them out, against Sherlock’s orders. He also constantly reminded Sherlock about good manners in polite society, scolded him when he was being too unsocial or too direct with people. John’s admission that apparently he misses most of Sherlock’s less desirable qualities causes mild confusion.

“You miss me being an arsehole?” enquires Sherlock carefully.

“Not an arsehole, just ... yourself.”

“Everything you described wasn’t exactly nice. You always complained about those things.”

John makes a frustrated gesture. “I did, yes. Still would.”

“I don’t understand.” Sherlock really doesn’t.

John huffs. “It’s just ... I miss the old days, okay? Things were easier then. A lot easier. The two of us against the rest of the world, that’s how it used to be. And it was good. Now, everything is ... complicated.”

Sherlock nods. That much is true. John looks lost and unhappy, and Sherlock decides against pressing for an explanation John very likely isn’t able to give.

“I know why you didn’t take this case immediately,” John continues, flicking a quick glance at Sherlock. “Not because it involves your cousin and his family and you don’t like them. I bet you’ve half solved the case in your head already and are bursting to go and tell them what idiots they’ve all been for overlooking all the important points. Perhaps the kid is hiding in the garden shed or something, and it’s been obvious to you all along. Back then ... before ... you wouldn’t have waited to ask my opinion whether to take it. You might not even have informed me apart from a brief ‘John, we’re leaving for Sussex in five minutes, bring the gun’ the moment I stepped into the flat.”

Sherlock is intrigued. This is the first time John has talked about his inner state in a long time – and John has never been forthcoming with this kind of information. Neither has Sherlock. Perhaps that’s why matters are so complicated. Sherlock raises his hands over his mouth, hiding a smile, and hoping John will reveal more.

“Do enlighten me. Why did I hesitate to take the case?” he asks evenly, veiling his genuine curiosity.

John looks at him keenly. “Because you were trying to spare my feelings. Again. I mean, kidnapped child, a girl, too. Bit close to home for poor John with his own daughter gone for good, guess that was your reasoning.”

“You don’t want me to spare your feelings, then?” asks Sherlock. Why are these sentiment-infested waters so bloody difficult to navigate?

“Fuck, yes. I don’t,” returns John fiercely, grabbing both arms of his chair and glaring at Sherlock. He is smiling, too, a hard, flinty smile. “I want you to be your arrogant, quick, brilliant, slightly arsy self. I want you to treat me like you used to. As you partner, the one who watches your back and tells you to eat and sleep, and who gets angry at you when you venture anywhere near drugs again. Your sounding board, the one you talk at when you’re sorting out a case in your head. Conductor of light, that’s what you called me once. That’s what I’d like to be again. Not someone you constantly worry about, whom you handle with velvet gloves for fear of breaking him. Don’t worry about me, Sherlock. Yes, the past months have been pretty shite. I’m not fine, far from it. Won’t be for a while, I reckon. There. I freely admit that, because it’s true. But I’m not made of glass. I won’t shatter and break at the tiniest reminder of what happened. I’ll get by. Things are improving, slowly, they really are. And now there’s a kid who needs our help. We can’t do anything about mine. I miss her, every day, but I hope she’s safe, and happy. But we can do something for this child, I think. So let’s get started.”

He has moved forward in his chair, looking excited and full of life. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are shining. He looks more alive than he has in a long time. Even Sherlock knows that not everything can be solved with a good case. John has admitted he misses his daughter. That feeling isn’t going to vanish. If the two years away from London, Baker Street and John, and even more those months after his return with John living in Croydon with Mary have taught Sherlock anything, it’s what it means to miss something (or someone), miss it so much that it feels like a part of oneself has been cut off. But it’s certainly a start, and dear God, both of them do need the distraction. The Work beckons. Who is he to deny that call?

“I’ll text Vanessa and enquire if there have been any new developments since her last message,” he says. John’s excitement is infectious. “Perhaps the girl has already been released or found. I’ll tell them to look in the shed.”

John actually grins at this. Sherlock’s heart leaps. “Do that. I’ll take a quick shower.” He stands while Sherlock begins to type Vanessa Warrington’s mobile number.

“Oh, and, Sherlock?”

He looks up. John has popped his head round the sliding doors leading into the kitchen. His expression is grave. “Thank you. For ...”

He makes a gesture that seems to encompass everything. Sherlock understands. “You’re welcome,” he replies quietly, holding John’s gaze, hoping to convey with his eyes what he finds difficult to put into words. He, too, has missed ‘his’ John, the doctor, the soldier, the friend. He’s seen quite enough of the grieving father and ex-husband lately.

The ping of an incoming email sounds from both his phone and the computer. He scans it quickly. “You’d better hurry, John. The Warrington’s are getting antsy. Now my cousin has written, too. Extraordinary. We haven’t exchanged a word for almost thirty years. He must be desperate indeed to lower himself so far as to contact the ’Freak’ in person.”

He sees John’s eyebrows draw together in a frown. “I understand he’s a git, but cut him some slack, okay. It’s his daughter, after all. Whatever moron your cousin may be, he loves her and worries about her wellbeing.”

He sets off down the corridor. “Give me ten minutes.”

“Five.”

“Git.”

“You asked for it.”

A chuckle. “I did, didn’t I? Want me to pack the gun?”

“I doubt we’ll need it, but bring it if you want.”

“Right.”

“Hurry up.”

“Oi, don’t overdo it.”

“Just trying to get back into the habit.”

John’s reply is the sound of the bathroom door being shut. Sherlock leans back in his chair and lets out a long breath. It feels like finally, things are moving again. The grey fog is lifting. The old John is still there, and hopefully the case will bring out more of him. Sherlock smiles at his phone, and then taps ‘connect’ to arrange a meeting with Vanessa Warrington and her husband.

 

**– <o>–**

 

“What exactly has he written, your cousin? And what was their reaction on the phone when you called them to tell them we’re taking the case?” John wants to know while he navigates the hired car through heavy rush-hour traffic along Vauxhall Bridge Road.

Sherlock looks up from his phone. He is glad John is driving. The traffic and the imbeciles behind the steering wheels all around them would have driven him mad before they even reached Victoria. Why are there so many cars in London, anyway? Isn’t there enough public transport, or cabs for those who can’t stand the Tube or the buses (like himself)?

“She cried a little on the phone, seemed very grateful. Don’t know what for, really, as we haven’t found her daughter yet. Daniel wrote,” he reads from his phone,

 

“ _Sherlock,_

_I know we haven’t spoken in a long time, and I understand if you refuse to help us. I used to be a real arse and caused you a lot of trouble. I apologise. It may fill you with glee that now I’m entreating you to help us. As Vanessa has said, we are very worried about our princess_

 

 _–_ princess, really? I mean, who calls their daughter ‘Princess’? The girl makes animals out of vegetables and reads adventure novels. Princess implies something pink and frilly, and she’s not that, from what I have gathered online. Daniel clearly doesn’t know his daughter. This kind of messed up parenting should be forbidden.”

“Read on, Sherlock,” John says patiently. A hint of a smile is playing around his lips, but it’s sad. Sherlock lets out a sigh. Who knows, perhaps John would have referred to his girl as some kind of royalty, too. They’ll never know now.

Sherlock sniffs and continues.

 

_“We are very worried about our princess, particularly because we can’t involve the police. I wanted to, and somehow the kidnappers must have felt that. We received another message from them not long ago: an envelope containing her hair. They cut her beautiful hair, the arseholes, and there was a note that more parts of her will follow if we don’t play by the rules._

 

A picture of the hair and the new note – again composed of stickers, was attached,” explains Sherlock. “Vanessa confirmed it in our conversation. The hair seems to have been cut off quite crudely, with a knife or blunt scissors, and it contained a hair-ornament they recognised as Tiffany’s. The hair seems to be genuinely hers, too. There is nothing else of interest in Daniel’s mail, only some more whining and apologising and begging. I bet he genuinely means only half of it, if any. But he is right, he needs our help.”

John frowns, looking ahead at the dense traffic. “You think she is in real danger, then, Tiffany?”

Sherlock steeples his hands under his chin. “There is a possibility that this entire thing has been devised to get at me through my relatives.”

John lets out a long breath. His hands clench on the steering wheel. “Moriarty, you mean.”

“Perhaps. Things have been quiet at that front for the past few months. I doubt the evidence Mary provided accounted for all of them. They must have been busy squabbling amongst themselves to ascertain who rises to the top now, the centre of the web. Maybe they have sorted out their bit by now. But somehow, this doesn’t feel like Moriarty or his successors. There is nothing in it for them, even if they want to trouble me. As yet, there has been no ransom claim, nothing that could yield any profit. And the Warringtons and us Holmes aren’t close. I doubt Mycroft has been in touch with our cousins lately, although doubtless he keep tabs on them.”

“They seem to be well-off,” muses John, before cursing softly under his breath and braking hard when another car swerves into their lane without indicating. “Perhaps the ransom claim is yet to follow. Didn’t the first note say they must wait for further instructions?”

“Yes,” says Sherlock thoughtfully. “But it’s moot to speculate at this point. We need more information about their circumstances. I want to have a look at the child’s room and the house and garden. I need to speak with the neighbours, and the friend at whose house she spent the night. Her parents have a bit of explaining to do as well.”

He stares out of the window as they enter Vauxhall Bridge – the first time he’s crossed the river since he shot Magnussen. It feels like crossing a border, something monumental. He feels he can breathe more freely now, and wonders whether their MI5 footpads are on their tail. He casts a glance at the traffic behind them, but nothing strikes him as conspicuous. He is certain, however, that Mycroft knows what he is up to. He knows, and appears to be fine with it. Sherlock wonders whether the Warringtons contacted him, too, and vows to find out.

“And there may be another place we need to check near Washington,” he adds quietly. “It may yield more information about the case than all witnesses put together.”

“Oh? What place?” enquires John, but Sherlock doesn’t answer. He stares out of the window unseeing.

In his mind palace, someone has unlocked the gate to the Washington of 1987. Sherlock stands in front of it, feeling the warmth of a strong July sun. Grasshoppers are chirping in the short grass, a Chalkhill Blue flutters by. The wind carries a distinct smell of sheep, and their bleating can be heard in the distance. Sherlock hesitates. It’s too soon, he can’t deal with that now. Then there’s a sharp whistle, the joyous bark of a dog. Someone calls his name, the intonation strange, almost foreign. Sherlock swallows. Taking a deep breath, he opens the gate fully and steps through it.

 

**– <o>–**

 

_July 1987_

Thankfully, the cattle remain peaceful, albeit eyeing Sherlock curiously as he dashes along the fence. Some of the calves amble over to investigate the strange intruder into their realm, but they maintain a safe distance.

Repeated glances over his shoulder show Sherlock that apparently he has shaken off his pursuers. None of the boys have made an appearance beyond the hedge. With luck, they haven’t noticed where exactly Sherlock went and are going to spend half the afternoon searching for him in the village. He smiles at the thought. Morons. If only they looked closely. His s crawl through the hole in the hedge is clearly marked by bent and broken branches and torn off leaves. He also seems to have left a bit of toilet paper behind. The last sheet has been ripped where it caught on a twig, and an edge is missing. Sherlock is relieved that none of the idiots is going to make a decent tracker any time soon.

He smiles up at the blue sky and the scatter of cumulus clouds drifting overhead on a light breeze. It looks like his fortune has turned. He is free to roam the countryside like he has wanted to for some time. There are no nasty children (or adults) around to get on his nerves. Suddenly, this day has all the makings of a good one.

 

**– <o>–**

 

After another scramble through a thick hedge which leaves scratches on his arms and face and twigs in his curls, Sherlock emerges into another pasture. This one isn’t fenced, but bordered by hedges on three sides and a patch of forest on the fourth. The grass is shorter than on the cattle pasture. Sheep have been grazing here, cropping it. In some of the branches of the hedge, strands of fleece hang like dense cobwebs. Sherlock spots a few rabbits scurrying away into their burrow. Grasshoppers spring up at every step he takes. Their constant chirping fills the air. He smiles, and shouldering his little pack again (he has stuffed the toilet roll and the small bag into the towel and tied up the ends like a bag), he walks towards the forest.

Once he has struggled through a dense outer border of hazel, hawthorn, sloe and dog rose, to his surprise he finds the forest to be quite open, almost tidy with little undergrowth. Bracken grows in dips and hollows, dense and green and strangely fragrant, smelling a little of Spaghetti Bolognese, thinks Sherlock.

But apart from that, the wood floor is only covered in last year’s leaves amid patches of fine, flowering grass. Some tree-stems are covered in ivy. Oak, beech, elm, ash, the occasional yew, dark and foreboding: Sherlock recognises most of the trees because he enjoys walking outside with Father, listening to him naming plants and trees, often with their botanical names, too, because he knows Sherlock enjoys that sort of thing and can memorise them easily. Sherlock is most interested in the poisonous plants. He looks around, hoping to find some foxglove or deadly nightshade, or at least some hemlock, but apparently this is the wrong kind of soil or time of year for these plants.

Sadly, it’s been too hot and dry for mushrooms, too. Some death caps would be fascinating. For a brief moment, Sherlock fantasises about mixing a little of that deadly toadstool into Tom’s and Daniel’s dinner. They wouldn’t even notice what ailed them until it was too late, death cap containing a nasty kind of poison that severely damages the liver. But then, this would make Sherlock a murderer. As much as he loathes his cousin and Daniel’s relative, he doesn’t want to kill them. Something to make them really sick and hug the toilet for a day would be preferable.

Thus engaged in fantasising how to seriously inconvenience his tormentors without killing them outright, Sherlock walks through the wood. The ground climbs steadily, and is getting steeper and rockier. After a while, Sherlock notices that for some time now, he has been following what appears to be a narrow path, winding between trees and patches of bracken, apparently making for the top of the ridge he can glimpse between the trees now and again. He wonders who made the path, whether it was an animal or a human being.

There are some traces of human presence in the wood, albeit not recent. Moss-covered tree-stumps indicate where once trees have been felled. Occasionally, bumps and little hills overgrown by vegetation point towards some kind of digging enterprise, perhaps with the purpose of finding flint. Here and there, scattered like building blocks for some unknown edifice, lie larger and smaller chunks of white chalk, flintstones embedded in them. Occasionally, Sherlock stoops to pick them up, looking for fossils. He recalls a visit to the beach below the Seven Sisters last year where he spent all day looking for fossilised sea-urchins, ammonites and ‘thunderbolts’. But simple flints with holes in them were just as good. He has a whole string of them in his room at home.

Now, the only interestingly shaped piece he finds is a flint of about the size of his fist, flat and oblong, almost symmetrical in shape, the edges strangely regular. He runs his fingers over the sides. The edge is not sharp enough to cut, but it could have been, once. He wonders whether this is one of the Stone Age tools field walkers regularly find in places where Stone Age people once settled. He decides to pretend it is, and pockets the flint with a smile. Didn’t Won-a-pa-lei use stone tools as well? Even though he has a small set with scissors and a file, he could try and make himself a proper blade from flint, and make an axe and some arrow-heads, too. Oh yes, arrows. He could fashion himself some bow and arrows, like Robin Hood. ~~~~

Oh, oh, and he could live in this forest, like Robin and his men. Better than the beach. More shelter. A certain lack of ice-cream, true, but he could always creep back into the village and steal from the Rich and Undeserving and give to the Poor (and Deserving), in this case himself. With a grim smile, he pictures Tom as the Sheriff of Nottingham, and Daniel as stupid Guy of Gisborne. He even has a similar haircut like the blond actor in the TV-series. Oh yes. And Sherlock would capture them and dunk Daniel into a pond, like Robin and his companions did with Gisborne.

Sherlock laughs happily at the thought, then begins to consider practicalities. There were hazels at the edge of the forest, he recalls, grown tall and straight. They’ll make good arrow shafts. For feathers he’ll need to search the meadows, or look in this forest for a tree where a bird of prey has eaten a pigeon or similar. Some of the yew trees were large enough to cut a decent bow from. As for the string, well, he could try and spin something from the sheep wool down at the hedge into a cord. His own hair is a little too short. He’d need to spend several weeks out here to have it grow to a usable length. Or else he’ll have to … acquire a bit of string for the bow from the Rich in the village. They won’t miss it, he is certain.

He likes the idea, and continues his uphill walk with a happy smile. He’s going to be Sherlock of the Hood. His t-shirt doesn’t have one, but he can use the towel for that. He is going to fight Tom the evil Sheriff, his dumb underling Daniel, and their bunch of stupid guards (such as Christopher and the two village idiots). He grins, humming Clannad’s distinct theme song of the beloved TV series. He knows it well and can even play it on his violin.

Then a thought crosses his mind. He halts suddenly abruptly and falls silent. He’d make a good Robin of Sherwood, he is convinced. He’s even got the same colour of hair as Michael Praed. The sad fact is, however, that something essential is missing. There are no Merry Men. No Will Scarlett and Friar Tuck, no Much, the miller’s son. No Nasir. No Lady Marian. And, most importantly, no Little John. How could he ever be a successful Robin without Little John?

He sighs, looking ahead to where bright sunlight is heralding the edge of the forest, feeling a small lump in his throat. Well, he’ll have to do without a stalwart companion for the time being. One person alone is easier to find food for, anyway. At this thought, his stomach makes an interested sound. Sherlock frowns. It’s only about four o’clock. Why on earth is he hungry again already? He’s had lunch less than four hours ago, and ate quite a lot, too, anticipating a long spell in the wardrobe or worse. He hates when his body demands these things. Why can’t his stomach just be silent for now? It’s inconvenient, the constant rumbling. He hasn’t got any food with him apart from half a packet of Hubba Bubba. His stomach better understand that and shut up.

Hoisting up his pack again, he continues towards the edge of the forest, his curiosity revived. Someone, either his parents or Mycroft, he thinks, once mentioned that on the Downs near his cousins’ home the remains of an Iron Age hill fort can still be seen, crowned by a ring of trees. There’s supposed to be a strange pond, too, constructed to collect dew. For years now, Sherlock has wanted to go and see it. Each time he actually came to Washington, his attempts where thwarted, either by family obligations, bad weather, or, last year, by injury. He wonders if now, finally, his chance has come.

He hopes he is walking in the right direction, though. Nobody specified where the mysterious pond and tree-henge are. Sherlock decides to ascend the hill in any case. With luck, the mysterious fort is right behind the edge of the forest. If not, at least he’ll have a good view from the top, and should be able to spot the hill fort. His spirits lifting after the Little John setback, he presses on.

 

**– <o>–**

 

Not long after, hot and sweating, his arms and legs stinging slightly from the nettles and the hedges he crawled through, Sherlock steps out of the forest onto a sunlit meadow. It’s studded by clumps of hawthorn and other bushes, and criss-crossed by chalky paths, like white scars on a green hide. A little to the south, a broader path seems to run towards a wire fence and a wooden gate. Sherlock makes for this track which continues uphill, albeit not as steeply as before. The track shows several footmarks, although none very recent, and gauges that looks like bicycle tyres. Someone appears to have driven a tractor up, too, perhaps the farmer whose sheep have been grazing on this land. None of the sheep are around now, although Sherlock thinks he can hear faint bleating in the distance, just out of sight.

Soon, his dark-blue trainers are dusted white. He idly kicks at flints on the path as he continues uphill, occasionally stooping to pick one up that looks suitable for an arrow-head. The sun is hot on his right shoulder. He squints up at it, shading his eyes with his hand, then stops and begins to unpack his provisions. In his small bag of toiletries, he is relieved to find a bottle of sunscreen lotion. Despite his dark hair, Sherlock’s skin is very fair and burns easily. When they went to the beach at Seven Sisters, he neglected to protect himself and ended up with a bad sunburn, and a freckly tan once it had healed. His granny always used to call him ‘Winter’s Child’, because he was born in early January and looks like a creature of that season, pale and dark, his eyes like winter’s sky or clear ice. Sherlock knows that having skin that burns easily has nothing to do with when one was born, but he always liked the sentiment.

So he opens the bottle and squeezes a generous helping onto his hand, to then cover his arms and face. After a moment’s deliberation, he rolls up his trouser-legs and smears his calves with lotion as well. Rubbing his sticky hands on the towel, he repacks his belongings and continues.

A soft south-westerly breeze whispers over the turf. Again many grasshoppers and other insects chirp and thrum in the grass. High above him, a lark is singing. Sherlock listens with a smile. He can’t play Vaughan Williams’ famous composition yet. His tutor insists it’s too difficult. Sherlock has been practising, though, as he’d like to prove her wrong. He’ll need a little more time, though.

To both sides of the path, Sherlock spots several butterflies he recognises: Small Tortoiseshells, Orange Tips, Painted Ladies, a Swallowtail. As excited as he is about the last one because they are rather rare, and this is only the second time he has seen one in the wild, he finds the Chalkhill Blues the most striking and appropriate for this kind of landscape. They look like little specks of blue sky come to earth as they are fluttering low over the green grass that’s not yet burned by the relentless summer sun. Where the sheep haven’t been for a while, flowers grow, harebells and yarrow, scabiouses and bird’s-foot trefoil, dodder-grass and sweet marjoram and thyme, and the green seed-pods of withered orchids. Sherlock wishes he’d brought his botany books. There are so many species here he doesn’t know, likely endemic to these chalky down-lands. He doesn’t even care whether they’re poisonous or not.

 

**– <o>–**

 

As he approaches the wooden gate, the ground begins to level out into a grassy ridge grown with bits of woodland and small copses of bushes on both sides, like a tonsured head with a ring of hair. From the west, a broader path is coming up, meeting the one Sherlock has been following at the gate and continuing eastward along the top of the ridge towards a clump of trees. White dots are moving near these trees: the sheep Sherlock has been hearing before. The barbed-wire fence is full of bits of fleece. Sherlock plucks a few of the strands off the fence and stuffs them into his pack.

The gate has a locking mechanism to let walkers through but keep the sheep inside. Sherlock decides to climb the gate regardless, as he wants to get an even better view of the surrounding countryside. Sitting astride the gate, he turns towards the north-east from whence he has come. He can see the village behind the woods, and thinks he can even spot his aunt and uncle’s house. North of Washington lies what looks like a large sand- or chalk-pit. He recalls overhearing Daniel and the others mentioning it, and that their parents had forbidden them to go there. Sherlock knows they went regardless, and that’s when Daniel’s bike had a flat. Sherlock saw the bike. The tyres were full of sand and chalk.

Letting his gaze sweep further north-eastwards, he overlooks a landscape of fields, meadows and farms, criss-crossed by hedgerows. There are some small woodlands, too. Far away, fading into blue, there’s what look like another range of downs. Sherlock wonders if one would be able to see London on a very clear day.

Straight to the east is the mysterious wood, like a ring of trees, their crowns shaped by southerly winds. Sherlock’s heart begins to beat excitedly. This must be the hill fort. He thinks he can recognise a small rise in the ground on which the trees grow. He decides that this mysterious ring of trees is going to be his next destination, right after he has checked out the dew pond not far from the gate, an almost circular indentation in the ground filled with greenish water and grown with reeds and other water-plants. With some luck, frogs and newts live there.

Southwards, the ground falls again, but not as steeply as to the north. Here and there, shallow pits and grooves have been dug into the chalky earth, and there are narrow tracks and paths all over the down, perhaps made by the sheep or other animals. Sherlock wonders if in the olden days when people still lived up on the hill, or took refuge in the fort, they dug for flints to either use for tools or weapons, or later for making fire and flintlocks for firearms. Oh, he needs to find some books on the subject. A portable library would be very helpful in these instances.

Beyond the ridge, a rural landscape continues in rolling waves that level out towards the sea, which is visible as a hazy blue line in the far South. Sherlock reconsiders his plan to go to Worthing Beach. This here is better.

Jumping from the gate, Sherlock makes his way over to the pond. The water level is still comparatively high. He wonders whether it dries out completely in very hot summers. It looks rather deep, too, although the ground can’t be seen because of the algae and other plants that grow in the water. A few dragonflies are zipping to and fro. Pond-skaters are making tiny ripples on the otherwise smooth surface.

Depositing his pack on the ground, Sherlock walks round the pond once before kneeling down near the edge of the water to look for amphibians. He can see none at first, but then he spots movement in the depths, and a flash of golden eyes. He’d like the catch the newt to study it, but it’s too far out. After a moment’s deliberation, Sherlock strips off his shoes and socks and wades into the cool water. It feels good on his feet, even though the algae are rather slimy. The newt, of course, has vanished by the time Sherlock has waded over. He stops when the water almost reaches his knees, waits for it to settle, then gazes at his reflection against a deep blue sky and white clouds: a pale face with strange proportions and unsettling eyes under a mop of dark curls. No wonder other people call him ‘Freak’. He does look rather odd.

A high-pitched cry makes him look up at the sky. A buzzard is circling overhead. Sherlock watches it for a moment until it flies out of sight. He bends over the pond again, hoping to catch another glimpse of the newt. But apart from the pond-skaters, nothing moves in or on the water. Just when he is about to return to the shore, however, Sherlock thinks he’s seen something, like a shadow or reflection that darkens the water for a second or two, and then vanishes again. Looking up quickly, he scans the bushes shielding the pond to the North and West, but he can’t make out any shape that could have caused the vision. There are no rustling sounds, no footsteps, either. Still, of a sudden, he has the distinct feeling of being watched.

Quickly, he steps out of the water and returns to his pack, all the while keeping an eye on the bushes. Nothing stirs in there, but the feeling of not being alone does not go away. Have his cousins caught up with him after all, Sherlock wonders. But no, they would have dashed at him and thrown him into the water while he was distracted. They wouldn’t hide in the bushes. They wouldn’t manage to be so still and silent.

Biting his lower lip, Sherlock digs the curiously formed flint he found in the forest out of his pocket. In case there’s something dangerous in the bushes, he can always throw it. Slowly, he approaches, prepared for anything. Or so he thinks. When a rabbit dashes out of the bushes, he jumps back and almost drops his stone. Breathing deeply, he watches the rabbit scurry away until it dives into a hole. The bushes are quiet again. Sherlock walks alongside them, occasionally shaking a branch, but nothing stirs inside. Eventually, he pockets his stone and returns to his pack. The feeling of being watched hasn’t left him entirely. He continues to keep an eye on the bushes. And he is certain – well, almost certain – that whatever he saw reflected on the water was no rabbit. It was larger, and vaguely human-shaped.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Robin Hood TV-series Sherlock feels inspired by is the wonderful _Robin of Sherwood_ , which ran from 1984 – 1986. Personally, I prefer the seasons with Michael Praed as Robin to those with Jason Connery. Sherlock, clearly, does the same. Interestingly, in the show, Little John was played by Clive Mantle – Dr. Frankland in "The Hounds of Baskerville".
> 
> The first illustration shows the boys in their natural habitat:  
> 
> 
> The second illustration bears the same name as the chapter: "The Dew Pond"  
> 


	3. The Ring of Trees

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again thanks a lot for all who commented on the story and the illustration, or left kudos. And again a special thanks to rifleman_s for betaing. I hope to get the next chapter done before the New Year (and new Sherlock). For those who haven't read the "Tiffany Aching" series by Terry Pratchett, do it. They are brilliant, and have partly inspired this story, although knowledge of them is not required to understand it.

_July 1987_

Eventually, Sherlock leaves the pond and sets out to explore the mysterious ring of trees looming in the distance. The faint feeling of being watched doesn’t leave him, but he can’t make out a particular direction. Overhead, the buzzard is still circling, now and again emitting a piercing cry. Apart from this and his own soft footsteps (he hasn’t bothered putting on his shoes again, they are dangling from his hand, the laces tied together and the socks stuffed into the trainers), the only sounds seem to be the sigh of the wind over the short turf, the buzzing of bees, the chirping of crickets, and the occasional bleat of one of the sheep grazing nearby.  

Sherlock can smell them as he approaches. The majority of the flock is further southwards where the grassy slopes fall gently towards clumps of trees and bushes, hedgerows, and fenced-in farmland, until they rise to another hill. The path Sherlock is following continues along the ridge of the hill beyond the tree-ring, descending gently to what looks like another gate, and a strange, large structure. At first, Sherlock thinks it might be a hut or a small house. It’s oblong, yet strangely rounded. As he draws closer, he sees that it seems to be made of rusty metal. A water tank, perhaps. It’s still too far away to see clearly. He vows to explore it later.

Shortly after the dew pond, he passes a stone marker. It’s about his own height, made of concrete, with a hole in the top that could be designed to hold a flagpole. He wonders whether it marks the highest point of the ridge, or else is an old boundary stone. Once again, he wishes he knew more about the history of the place.

For now, though, the ring of trees must receive his full attention. It consists almost exclusively of beeches, tall and slender, their crowns bent northwards, shaped by the constant winds from the sea. The smooth, silver trunks rising out of the sheep-cropped turf look like the limbs of a huge, many-armed creature. Their branches intertwine to form a wind-swept canopy. A grass-grown dyke marks the outer perimeter of the circle, with trees growing all over it. Sherlock surmises that they must have been planted. They don’t look to have grown naturally. They are all of about the same height and width, with regular gaps between them.

He is both delighted and excited. The grassy dyke must be the remains of the hill fort he has read about. He wonders when it was built, and what kind of people lived here. Did they fetch their water from the dew pond? Did they plant the trees, or the forebears of the trees as they now stand. Perhaps the local people tend to this strange wooden henge. Perhaps there is a person down in Washington assigned to look after the trees, like Herne the Hunter looks after Sherwood Forest. Sherlock smiles at the thought, and imagines an antlered man coming up here on moonlit nights whispering to the beeches, tending to them, and planting new ones when they are felled by wind or age. Over his shoulder, he casts a glance back in the direction of the pond. Perhaps it was the tree-guardian he saw reflected in the water. Perhaps that’s a sign that he’s worthy to enter the ring of trees. Oh, oh, perhaps the unworthy ones get struck by a falling branch or tripped by a root when they try to step into the henge. It could be like Fangorn Forest in _The Lord of the Rings._ Tom and Daniel would likely get a good thrashing.

Despite being convinced of his own worthiness, it is with some slight trepidation that Sherlock climbs the dyke and, looking up at the trees in awe, steps into the circle. Nothing happens. He breathes a sigh of relief.

 _Don’t be silly, Sherlock,_ his brother’s voice scolds him. _Stick to the facts. There is no Herne the Hunter. He may be based on a belief of the Celtic people that once lived here, their old god Cernunnos rehashed in a silly fantasy series. And trees don’t come alive to attack wanderers. Don’t allow your imagination to run away with you. Keep a strong hold on your fanciful thoughts. They’ll only damage you in the end._

Sherlock stops and swallows, looking down at the moss and soft, cool grass covering the ground. He is neither silly nor stupid (well, perhaps in comparison to Mycroft he is, because everybody is stupid when compared to his brother). He knows that Herne isn’t real, and that very likely, Robin Hood wasn’t either. He knows the facts. _But what damage,_ he thinks stubbornly, looking around, _has a little fantasy ever caused to anybody? It makes things better. It offers escape when people are nasty and lock me in wardrobes. It makes the world more colourful, and, frankly, more bearable._

He enjoys discovering natural wonders, he likes scientific riddles, and solving them even more. But he also liked when Father read _The Hobbit_ to him, and he enjoys reading _The Lord of the Rings_ by himself. He doesn’t believe in Elves and Hobbits and wizards, of course. He isn’t stupid. But he doesn’t want to end up like Mycroft, either. Mycroft with his Boater and his umbrella. Mycroft, who only believes what can be proven scientifically, and only if he has at least two independent sources to verify it. Mycroft, who doesn’t seem to enjoy anything much, who hardly spends time outside anymore, judging from his pale complexion and flabby backside. Mycroft, who has become both excruciatingly boring and very, very dangerous. No, Sherlock doesn’t want to end up like him. He wants to be excited, all the time. He wants to explore new things, solve new riddles. He wants to go and have adventures.

Somewhere, a sheep bleats, pulling Sherlock out of his thoughts. He turns and looks back toward the edge of the tree-ring, squinting a little against the bright sunlight. He can make out a small group of sheep grazing near the dyke. They are still fluffy in their winter wool and look slightly dishevelled. Sherlock thinks they must be warm, and wonders when they will be shorn. Some lambs are skipping about playfully. Sherlock watches them for a while, until the crack of a small twig makes him turn and scan the small grove ahead of him.

Under the trees, the light is soft and green-hued. Contrary to what he believed at first, the old hill fort is not just surrounded by a tree-henge. The flat area inside the wall is grown with beeches, too. As in the forest Sherlock passed through on his way to the top of the down, there is very little undergrowth. He can almost see the other end of the forest. The wind in the tree-crowns and the sunlight creates flickering leaf-shadows on the ground. In some places, sheep seem to have rested under the trees, because the grass has been trodden down, and there are traces of their droppings.

As Sherlock steps further into the grove, he comes across an indentation where a ring of scorched stones and wood-ash marks a fireplace. It’s not recent, seems several months old. _Maybe,_ he muses, _they celebrated Beltane here._ An empty Pepsi can half-buried under one of the stones seems to indicate a less sacred ritual.

Sherlock picks up the can and frowns at it. It’s a jarring, unfitting thing in this tranquil natural world. He doesn’t like it, because it reminds him of other people staying here. Rationally, he knows he is not alone. In fact, it’s quite a marvel that no hikers, dog-walkers or sheep farmers have shown up so far. The place must be popular with wanderers because of the nice view. And judging by the bicycle tracks he saw earlier, some of the local youngsters seem to come up here, too. Maybe it was they who lit the fire, hidden away from the disapproving eyes of their adults. Maybe, if he digs deeper, he’ll find other cans and bottles, and cigarettes, too. Stupid idiots. The least they could do would be to take their litter with them upon leaving, instead of spoiling the countryside with it.

Suddenly angry, he stuffs the can into his pack and moves on towards the northern edge of the grove. The trees are slightly lower there, but stand denser. Some are shaped oddly, their trunks winding like snakes. Sherlock wonders what made them grow in this fashion. He finds one where the trunk is shaped like a natural seat. He climbs up and sits down, enjoying the slight sway of the tree. Leaning back against the smooth bark, his naked feet dangling, Sherlock gazes around. The view to the north is spectacular. The ground falls steeply so that nothing blocks the vista of fields, meadows, small farms, trees and hedgerows. In the distance, a plume of smoke rises up. Somebody is burning something. A flash of light indicates a passing car, or a window being closed at a distant house. Sherlock wishes he had a map to look up what the faint blue line of hills he can see in the distance is called, and how far away London lies.

After a while, he gazes up at the beech-leaves fluttering overhead, and the patch of blue sky he can see between them. His stomach grumbles softly, and he pats it. “Shut up,” he scolds it, while at the same time thinking that some drink would actually be nice now. He is really thirsty. Couldn’t they leave a full can of Pepsi lying around in the forest instead of an empty one?

Digging in his pocket, he unearths the Hubba Bubbas and puts one in his mouth, chewing slowly to make the flavour last. He wonders if the water from the dew pond is drinkable. If the newt can survive in there, it at least shouldn’t be poisonous. He might get a little sick, but that’s better than dying of thirst. How long can one survive without water? A day? Two? He can do without food for longer, he knows. He’s already tried that, although Mummy was quite cross with him after three days and five hours of not eating.

He could try the water tank, he muses. Perhaps they keep drinking water for the sheep in there. On the other hand, he’s feeling too lazy to get up right now. He’s comfortable in his tree-seat, and the chewing gum is helping against the worst thirst. The temperature of the air around him is just perfect. It’s shady, not too cold and not too hot, with a gentle breeze fanning his naked arms and feet. The sheep are making soft sheep noises in the distance, apart from that only the rustling of the leaves can be heard and the occasional cry of a bird of prey circling in the sky beyond the tree canopy. It’s peaceful, and yet not boring. Sherlock breathes deeply, happily, and closes his eyes.

 

**– <o>–**

 

He wakes suddenly, with a start, almost sliding off his tree. Heart pounding, he scrambles to stay seated, looking around to find what has woken him. The forest seems darker. At first, he thinks evening might have fallen, that he has slept several hours. But a quick glance at his watch shows that he can’t have dozed more than thirty minutes. Still, it’s a marvel he didn’t fall off his seat. The sun must be hidden behind some clouds right now to account for the gloom.

Gazing up at the sliver of sky, he finds his suspicion confirmed. Clouds have moved up from the south-west, and the wind has freshened up, sighing and moaning in the branches. Sherlock wonders if the wind has woken him. He looks about him once more. Some of the sheep seem to have meandered between the trees. Has one of them stepped on a fallen branch and so caused a noise? As was the case back at the dew pond, Sherlock has the distinct feeling of being watched. Yet try as he might, he can’t locate the source of the feeling. It’s none of the sheep, he is certain. They seem entirely oblivious of the lone human in the grove, minding their own business as sheep do. Is somebody else here? A hiker, perhaps, or one of the children from the village? Has the farmer come to look after his animals?

Sherlock sits up straighter, listening closely to any unusual sound, and straining his eyes to catch the slightest movement between the trees. For a long time, nothing happens. He is almost disappointed, when suddenly, he hears the rustle of leaves on the ground, and the snag of a small branch. Sliding from his seat, he quickly digs the shaped flint out of his pack, keeping his eyes fixed on the source of the sound. It came from a dense clump of trees. There it is again. Sherlock thinks that this time, he even spotted movement behind one of the trunks. Something large and dark is hiding there, larger than a bird or squirrel. Could be a sheep, but it seemed taller.

Gripping his flint more tightly in his right hand, he carefully moves closer, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever is hiding behind the tree. Oh, this is exciting. He doesn’t feel threatened, but elated by the thrill of exploring this new riddle. When he has almost reached the tree, he draws a deep breath, then dashes to one side to be able to gaze around the trunk. He hears leaves stirring, but can’t see anything material. Is this forest haunted? Is a ghost of the ancient people who once settled here living in the tree-henge, playing tricks on unsuspecting travellers? Sherlock is even more intrigued. He hasn’t quite decided yet whether he wants to believe in the existence of ghosts. Mycroft has told him that there is nothing supernatural in this world, that everything can be explained logically and scientifically. But Sherlock likes stories of ghost ships and haunted houses, and moreover, if ghosts aren’t real, why do so many people claim to have seen them? Are they all crazy? Perhaps Mycroft simply doesn’t know everything for a change. Sherlock thinks that a world without ghosts and spirits would be far less exciting. And he’d like to meet Herne the Hunter, or at least see him from a distance, if he’s still around and hasn’t vanished after the Middle-Ages.

Stepping closer to the tree, he studies the ground carefully. “Aha,” he mutters when he sees that layer of last year’s leaves has been stirred, and that some of the fine grasses have been bent as if something – or someone, rather – has stood on them. The ground is fairly soft and yielding here, not yet baked dry by the sun as it was on the grassy slopes of the down. Bending down and carefully running his fingers over the ground, he thinks he can see and feel the outlines of small, bare feet, not much larger than his own. Oh, this is brilliant. So there is somebody else here. Slowly, he straightens again, gazing about him.

“I know you’re here,” says Sherlock, more to himself. Then more loudly, he adds, “Stop hiding. Show yourself.”

Nothing happens. The wind continues to sigh in the branches and rustle the leaves. A lamb bleats and its mother answers in the distance.

“I won’t harm you. You can come out now. I know you’re here.” Sherlock frowns when again, there is no reply.

Sherlock snorts. “Oh, come on. You can’t be hiding anywhere round here. I checked. Unless you dug a hole in the ground or you’re really invisible, you can’t just vanish. I know you’re human. Ish. Humanoid. Is that the right words? I saw your footsteps. You have two legs and human feet. Come out now. Or at least indicate where you are. It’s unfair if you’re invisible. You could at least make a sound. Or if you don’t want to be found, you could stop following me. It’s not good manners, you know, creeping up to people when you’re invisible.”

He huffs. “Are you a ghost? Or ... oh, oh, can you fly, perhaps?”

At his words, a heavy gust of wind shakes the tree, causing some leaves and a small twig to fall down onto Sherlock’s hair. For a moment, he thinks he hears another sound, high and happy, like faint giggling. _Maybe they can fly indeed,_ he muses, before scolding himself. _Stupid, stupid. They wouldn’t have to be able to fly. They could just climb._

Swallowing slightly and taking some steps away from the tree, he gazes up, only to have another small twig land on his face. “Hey, that’s not nice,” he complains, trying to see between the fluttering leaves of the lower branches. “Stop throwing down stuff.”

There is something up there, he is certain. Giggling sounds again, louder this time. It’s infectious. Sherlock almost forgets being put out about the secrecy of the mysterious forest creature. He can’t help smiling. This is so exciting.

He decides to try another tactic. “If you come down, you can have a Hubba Bubba, if you want. Strawberry flavour. They’re ... rather good.”

Silence from above. Sherlock sighs. “How about I put one on the floor here and you can come down and try it, and I’ll go back to my tree over there,” he points, “and if you want, you can join me there. Would that be okay?”

He waits, shifting a little to try and see better, but whoever is up in the beech has hidden well. Just when he is convinced he won’t receive an answer, one of the branches stirs. Sherlock almost whoops with excitement. “Is that a yes?”

The branch trembles again.

Sherlock laughs, his heart beating quickly. “You can understand me?”

Another shake.

“Oh, this is brilliant. I’ll leave the gum right here, on this stone, all right. Please don’t hide again. See, I’ll put my flint here, too. I’m unarmed now and I’ll go to my tree. Please come down.”

He places his flint on the leaves and a chewing gum on top of it, before carefully withdrawing, albeit keeping his eyes fixed on the large beech. Nothing happens there. Sherlock can’t hide his disappointment.

“What else do you want me to do?” he asks. “Turn around so I can’t see you climb down?”

The branch rustles. Sherlock sighs. Whoever is hiding in the beech appears to be a very particular kind of creature. “All right, my back is turned, my eyes are closed. Look, I’m even covering them with my hands. Could you come down now, please? This is getting a bit tedious.”

He waits, feeling rather vulnerable with his eyes closed. His other senses are sharpened, however. After a short while, to his delight and slight trepidation, the beech in the distance rustles. A short pause, and then, unmistakably, footsteps, approaching.

Sherlock’s breath quickens. He wants to turn and look, but on the other hand, the suspense is absolutely precious. Something is coming closer. It’s rather light, of about his own weight, he estimates, judging by the sound of careful footsteps on the leafy ground. Another gust of wind rushes through the trees, and Sherlock can smell artificial strawberry flavour on it, and something else, something warm and earthy and human, like skin after a day in the summer sun, like turf and chalk and sheep-wool.

The footsteps stop behind him. Sherlock swallows thickly. His heart threatens to beat out of his chest. He hears the rustle of cloth, and then, something cold touches his hand. He jumps a little, and spins round. In front of him stands a boy a little older than him, holding out his flint.

 

**– <o>–**

 

_July 2016_

“Sherlock.”

“Sherlock.”

“Sherlock, could you please wake up. We’re almost in Washington and I need to know which turn to take.”

Sherlock opens his eyes, hissing at the crick in his neck from where he has slid down in the car seat. “I wasn’t asleep,” he mutters, his hoarse voice betraying his words. “Mind palace.”

John huffs. “Yeah, of course. You were muttering something about Hubba Bubba.”

“What? No I wasn’t,” returns Sherlock, scooting into a sitting position again and adjusting the seat-belt that has dug into his neck. He feels a little embarrassed, and wonders what else he might have said.

“You think I’d make that up? Anyway, glad you managed to nap a little. Didn’t sleep again last night, did you?”

“I did sleep.”

“For one hour or two? I heard you rummaging in the kitchen and the living room in the middle of the night.”

“Meaning you didn’t sleep, either.”

“I needed the loo. Look, I know I’m not the only one having nightmares. And I can prescribe you something to help you sleep, if you want. Perhaps it would also help if you talked about what’s troubling you. To me, or a professional, whatever you prefer. Your time abroad ... I know that’s still troubling you. And what happened with Magnussen was—”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock interrupts him curtly. He doesn’t want to talk about his nightly visions, not with John or anybody else, as much as he appreciates John’s concern.

John gives him a long glance, then sighs. “Sure.”

“Leave the main road here and then follow the signs to Washington,” Sherlock instructs him, hoping to steer the conversation to other, more practical subjects. Memories of his latest dream still haunt him – so yes, apparently he did fall asleep. Or else he was buried so deeply in the convoluted pathways of his mind palace that he got lost there a little as he pursued chalky paths through sunlit forests. He shakes himself to get rid of the last shreds of the memory. There is a case at hand. He must not allow himself to get distracted by what lies in the past.

Unfortunately, the very landscape they are driving through now is bound to stir up memories of his last stay here. Having reached the outskirts of Washington, Sherlock tells John turn right behind the recreation ground and to follow a narrow road through the village proper towards its small church. The place hasn’t changed much in twenty-nine years, Sherlock finds. Some of the larger trees have gone, and those that were small then have grown. Houses have been modernised with car-ports and satellite dishes, the cars in front of them look different. But all in all, Washington retains the sleepy quaintness it bored Sherlock with almost thirty years ago.

Likely, the inhabitants of the village haven’t changed much, either. Most of them used to be well off, tedious middle-class even during the Thatcher years. Thirty years on, they’re the people who’ve now created a massive headache for his brother by voting to leave the EU. Sherlock couldn’t care less about politics, and usually appreciates anything that troubles Mycroft. But he knows that John has very strong opinions about Brexit. The recent result of the referendum didn’t exactly improve his mood. On the contrary, it added exponentially to his depressed state and his conviction that 2016 is the worst year he has ever experienced. Considering how strained their relationship is now and the general state of things, Sherlock is tempted to agree, despite the fact that at least, John is back at Baker Street, and Sherlock hasn’t died on some doomed mission in Eastern Europe. To humour John, he even registered as a voter, something he’d never bothered to do during previous elections. Together they went and cast their votes. John didn’t mention it in words, but Sherlock knows he appreciated the effort Sherlock made. He bought him coffee and an apple-turnover on their way back to Baker Street.

Now, John’s thoughts seem to be concerned with politics as well. “This looks like a pretty conservative area,” he remarks, obviously having spotted the leftover ‘Vote Leave’ sign in a front garden.” He sniffs disdainfully, his expression grim. “I tell you, if I see a single UKIP sign round here, I’m going to set it on fire.”

Sherlock chuckles. “Well, it’s been some time since your last ASBO ...”

“Shut up.”

“I’ll help you.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I’ll fetch the petrol and stand guard while you ignite it.”

A brief but genuine grin flashes over John’s face, warming Sherlock’s insides like a sip of hot tea. ”First you voted, and now you’re going to burn right-wing propaganda with me?” quips John. ”What’s going on? Suddenly turning political, are you?”

“Hardly. I hate bullies, though. Always have.”

John’s expression softens, turning grave. “I know. That’s why you shot Magnussen, isn’t it?”

Sherlock suppresses a sigh. _Not quite, John,_ he thinks. “Yes. He habitually targeted people who are different.”

John nods darkly. Sherlock wonders if he is thinking of Mary, and decides not to investigate further. “You are right about the inhabitants of this village, though,” he says instead. “Thirty years ago, this was a very Thatcher-friendly area. My uncle endorsed many of her political decisions, although were he alive today, he’d likely have voted further right, too. I remember that he had strong – and completely misguided – opinions about ‘foreigners, gypsies, that lot’. Basically anybody who didn’t conform to his very narrow sense of what was supposed to be ‘proper’ English. He was particularly vile about the traveller families that passed through the area occasionally, claiming that they tended to cause trouble in the villages wherever they stopped, drinking and stealing and leaving all their rubbish. Uncle Richard found them lazy and suspicious and untrustworthy. I didn’t endear myself to him when during one of his vile diatribes, I pointed out that he was cheating on his own colleagues when it came to the fair distribution of labour in his company, that he used the company car privately, and tended to call in sick whenever he’d had a late session with some of his football friends the previous evening. And that he never tidied up behind him, but left that to Aunt Mabel.”

“Bloody hypocrite,” comments John, looking adequately disgusted. “Do you know what his son’s political views are like?”

“No. But Daniel’s company does a lot of trading with customers in Europe. Unless he’s more stupid or brainwashed by propaganda than I even believe, he would have voted ’in’. Oh, turn left here. We’re almost there.”

They have reached a residential area of fairly large, detached houses, most of them built of brick. Sherlock feels unprepared for the powerful stab of nostalgia when they turn into the cul-de-sac their destination is situated in.

“Gosh, this looks like Privet Drive,” comments John.

“What?”

John chuckles. “It’s the fictional street where Harry Potter’s aunt and uncle, the Dursleys, lived. This place looks a bit like it, although the houses are different. But it has the same atmosphere. Did they have a cupboard under the stairs, your aunt and uncle?”

“Yes. For brooms and the hoover.”

John nods. “Ever spent time in there?”

“I once hid in there from my cousins.”

Mirth crinkles the corners of John’s eyes. Sherlock has to look away because he is strikingly beautiful when he laughs like this, and Sherlock can’t deal with the onslaught of emotion at the sight right now. “What is it?” he asks irritably.

“Nothing. It’s just ... yours sounds a bit like Harry Potter’s story. As a kid, I mean. Oh, don’t make a face. You know Harry Potter, right?”

“I am not completely unaware of popular culture, John.”

“Really? Ever heard of Darth Vader? Anyway, Harry grew up in a boring, thick-headed, bigoted family who made him live in the cupboard under the stairs for the first eleven years of his life. His cousin and his friends bullied him, because he was different. Sound familiar?”

“Yes,” admits Sherlock thoughtfully. He really needs to look into this Harry Potter thing. “I can’t do magic, though.”

“Oh, many people may dispute that, actually. For them, what you do seems like magic.”

“Yes, because they’re stupid and don’t pay attention.”

“Oh, come on, you revel in the fact you’re unique. The only one in the world.” He looks ahead, slowing the car for a cat as it crosses the road. “The boy who lived,” he adds softly, giving Sherlock a quick, furtive glance from the corner of his eye.

Sherlock swallows. John is referring to the various instances when he cheated death. There have been several incredibly close calls, the last one on the plane. John looks troubled. Sherlock is tempted to reach for his hand and squeeze it. But they don’t do that, do they? The touching thing. John isn’t demonstrative that way, likely wouldn’t appreciate if Sherlock suddenly reached out. Thus, he refrains.

“We’re here,” he says instead. “The house with the wisteria and the two cars in front of it.”

John nods and parks their car on the kerb opposite. “They seem to be doing well,” he remarks. Sherlock nods. There are definite signs of prosperity about the property. The sporty Audi is last year’s model. The second car is only slightly older, a large Skoda that screams ‘family car’. The house has been extended with a conservatory, not five years old. Sherlock wonders if the shed in the back garden is still there or whether it has been replaced by a new edifice, too. The front garden is well-kept and shows signs of professional care. The wisteria has been trimmed last autumn by somebody who knew about plants, and the boxwood hedges and recent summer plantings of pelargoniums, lobelias and begonias show similar care and attention.

A small sign at the house announces that this is a Neighbourhood Watch Area. And indeed, when they exit the car, curtains twitch in two of the nearest houses. Sherlock thinks he catches a glimpse of a wrinkled face with a white perm from the right-hand neighbour, and he smiles to himself. Apparently old Ellie is indeed still alive, and as inquisitive as ever. Again he is assaulted by nostalgia, and again he fights it down.

The front door of the wisteria house opens, and Vanessa Warrington steps out. She looks older than in her twitter selfies, and her hair is longer and caught in a loose bun. Dressed in jeans, trainers and a flowery top, all up-market brands, her clothes show traces of frantic search in dirty places. Sherlock spots a cobweb on her shoulder and streaks of dust on her thighs, likely because she rubbed her hands clean on her trousers. Obviously, they did search the shed, and other places where a child may be hidden.

“Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, welcome,” she greets them, looking anxious, stressed and relieved at the same time. “I’m so glad you could make it. Please, come in. Daniel is doing another round of informing the neighbours about what happened and asking around if anybody has seen her. He should be back soon. Can I offer you anything?”

“No, thank you,” says Sherlock, shaking her offered hand briefly. Her handshake is firm if slightly sweaty. Two of her formerly neatly manicured nails are split, and there’s dirt under them. Thorough search, apparently. John greets her as well.

“Please, come in. You ... you know the house, I presume?”

“Yes,” replies Sherlock. “It’s been a while, though.”

She nods. “Yes, Daniel said. He didn’t tell me what happened back then, why you didn’t visit afterwards anymore. But I’m so grateful that you are prepared to look beyond old grief and help us now.”

“We haven’t found the girl yet. Have there been any new developments? Any new messages?”

Her calm and collected facade cracking, she runs a slightly tremulous hand through the strands that have slipped out of the bun. “No, Mr. Holmes—”

“Sherlock. And this is John.”

“Sherlock. All right. No, we haven’t received any new message from the kidnapper. None of the neighbours has seen her vanish, but Ellie – you remember Ellie? She is our next door neighbour over there. Anyway, she said that around the time the second message arrived, she saw a child in the street who she didn’t recognise. That in itself is not unusual. Many families have relatives visiting during the summer holidays. Daniel said he’d talk to her again, so when he returns, he may have more details.”

“I will talk to her in a short while,” says Sherlock, glancing towards Ellie’s house. “For now, I’d like to see the letters you received, and I also want to see Tiffany’s room. Does she have a mobile phone?”

“Yes. And she had it with her when she spent the night at her friend’s, and took it with her when she left there in the morning. We’ve tried to call, repeatedly, but we can’t reach it. Mobile reception is usually quite good in this area. The tracking has been disabled, too. It must be switched off. Likely, the kidnapper took it from her. Destroyed it, perhaps, so it can’t be tracked. I mean, they could be far away now. Loaded her into a car and carted her off.” She sighs tremulously, betraying a deep worry beyond her composed facade.

“That’s unlikely,” soothes John. “After all, they’re likely to approach you again. They haven’t even stated their intent yet, nor demanded a ransom. Had they just wanted to abduct her, why contact you, and in such a strange fashion, too. They could have sent an email, or phoned. No, I’d say, chances are they are still close by.”

Sherlock nods thoughtfully as they walk towards the front door. John is right. Vanessa seems relieved, and Sherlock is pleased that once again, John is taking over the ‘looking after distressed people’ part he is good at and Sherlock isn’t. Just like old times.

Sherlock stops at the front door, also halting Vanessa’s and John’s progress with his hand. Pulling out his magnifying glass, he leans close to the letter-box.

“Have you or your husband touched this since the second message was pushed through?”

Vanessa shakes her head. Sherlock nods, taking note of the faint fingerprints. “Don’t touch it now, either. And don’t step on the mat. Carefully put it to the side, John, so that what footprints are on there are preserved. We may need them later.”

John does as he is bidden. “I don’t see any footprints.”

Sherlock smiles to himself. “Of course not. But nevertheless there are clear traces of who wiped their feet there last, and those traces may become important. There are very distinctive soils in this area. Let’s go inside.” He doesn’t mention the faint white marks he has seen on the mat. _Chalk. Interesting._

The interior of the home has changed in decor and some pieces of furniture, although the feel of the house is still the same and eerily familiar. Sherlock watches John give the cupboard under the stairs a long glance. Sherlock wonders if Daniel’s wooden wardrobe and the sea-chest in the attic are still there, and whatever happened to the old Atari.

The kitchen is new. One of the walls to the living room has been taken out to create an open plan space which extends into the conservatory that takes up one side of the living room and reaches out into the back garden. The garden itself looks similar to its mid-1980s state. The apple and plum trees are still there, as is the privet and yew hedge in the back. The shed still stands, but has a new roof. The old swing that used to hang from the branches of the Bramley apple tree has been replaced by a wooden swing-and-slide construction. To the side of the shed stands a plastic sandpit shaped like a sea-shell, probably a leftover from when Tiffany was younger.

Inside, the house is predictably and boringly furnished with a mixture of antiques and very modern designer furniture, mostly in shades of white, cream and dark brown. For a family with a child, there is very little clutter, and clear signs of a housekeeper who comes in at least once a week to clean and tidy. Even though a large flatscreen TV takes up part of one of the walls in the living room, there is a distinct lack of DVDs or Blu-Rays. Sherlock spots a Sky box, however. He can’t see many books, either. Those present on one of the few shelves seem to serve as decoration rather than education. They are sorted by the colours of their spines, not by subject. In combination with the generic black-and-white photographs of stones, flowers and wooden walkways leading into misty lakes, the interior looks like it’s been taken directly out of the pages of a furniture catalogue.

As one of few personal touches, Sherlock spots a couple of framed family photographs on the mantelpiece of the fireplace. They mostly show Tiffany during various stages of her life, from baby to toddler to nursery-child to student. As in her photographs featured in the press, she rarely smiles but often seems dreamy and far away. In some of the family shots where apparently she was told to smile, her face looks like a grimace. Sherlock recalls that there are similar pictures of himself. He always hated being photographed as well.

One photo, however, catches his attention. It’s a recent shot, and obviously one she didn’t know was being taken. Tiffany looks nine or ten years old. She is curled up in a deck chair in the conservatory, her legs wrapped in an old blanket Sherlock thinks he remembers from thirty years ago. Tiffany is reading some paperback, and seems completely lost in the book. Her cheeks are glowing, her eyes intent and shining. She doesn’t even seem to feel that a fly has settled on the back of her hand.

“Easter last year she spent an entire day in the chair, reading that book,” says Vanessa, stepping next to Sherlock and peering over his shoulder. Her voice is wistful and sad. “Wouldn’t come for meals, barely even drank anything. The next day, she begged me to take her to Worthing Library to try and get the other parts of the series. I wasn’t sure whether to approve, but in the end we went.” She shrugs.

Sherlock turns to her. “Which book series is that?”

“Some fantasy thing about witches and little blue men.”

 _”The Wee Free Men,”_ puts in John from where he is standing at the window glancing out over the tranquil street.

“Yes, that’s the title of the first one,” nods Vanessa. “By now, there are four or five. The last one was published last year, shortly after the author died. Tiffany wanted it for her birthday. Also, she was very upset when she learned that the author had passed. Apparently he had some early form of Alzheimer’s.”

Sherlock makes a mental note to look into the series. John chuckles softly. “Have you ever read any of these books?” he asks Vanessa. She shakes her head. “I’m more into crime novels. But according to the librarian, they are appropriate for a child of Tiffany’s age, so I didn’t object. Why? Should I be worried?”

John laughs. “No, not really. I only read the first one. It’s funny but also teaches one some truths about life. And I can see why they would appeal to Tiffany. The protagonist is a girl her age who is very competent, looks after people, and trains to be a witch, and who shares Tiffany’s name.”

“Oh, I didn’t know that,” says Vanessa. She looks as if she feels a little wrong-footed, likely wishing she had looked more closely into her daughter’s reading habits. “Ah, that may explain why she insisted on disguising herself as a witch for last year’s Halloween. Well, I have the two letters here. We tried to handle them as little as possible to preserve potential fingerprints. The second one we only touched with gloves.”

She beckons to John and Sherlock to step over to the dining room table where two A4 sheets of paper and their envelopes lie, together with a list of phone numbers, both emergency and from relatives and neighbours. Sherlock spots one of the numbers Mycroft uses among them, and briefly wonders if the Warringtons would have contacted him, too, had Sherlock refused to help them.

Getting out his magnifying glass again, he leans over the letters, looking closely at the grain of the paper and the way the sticker letters have been applied. He takes his time, noticing how behind him, Vanessa Warrington hovers anxiously. “Would you like some tea,” she offers at length, apparently eager to prove herself useful in some way.

“No,” replies Sherlock curtly, annoyed that his concentration was broken by her question.

Next to him, John clears his throat meaningfully. Sherlock looks up at him briefly, takes in his expression, and has to avert his own face to hide a smile. John is chiding his lack of manners. This feels so much like old times that Sherlock feels a powerful stab of wistful nostalgia.

“He means that tea would be lovely,” John tells their host.

When Vanessa has removed herself to the kitchen, John steps closer. “Found anything?”

Sherlock nods. “I’ll need to see the girl’s room and talk some more to her parents and old Mrs. Cushiel, the neighbour, but I think I know what happened.”

“You do? Already?” asks John, awe and wonder in his voice. Sherlock swallows. Oh, he has missed this.

He straightens up, putting away the magnifying glass. “Look around you, John. What do you see?”

John gazes about, then shrugs. “Normal family home, bit posh. Bit boring, too, for my taste.”

Sherlock bites his lip to prevent him from pointing out that the house John shared with Mary in Croydon was a lot like this, if less ‘posh’. Those few times he was there, he asked himself how on earth John could feel at home there. Now wonders if John thinks the same, if ever he did feel at home.

“Complete lack of eloquent dust,” adds John playfully, and Sherlock blinks. Oh, apparently he didn’t think of the place in Croydon, but of Baker Street. This is ... good.

“Apart from the photos, there seem to be very few personal items,” John goes on. “And not much indicates that a child actually lives here. I mean, when I think about our family home back in the day, there were always toys lying about, or books, or sports gear. Mum always complained about us not tidying up enough. Not that I don’t like a tidy place now and again, mind,” he adds with a meaningful glance at Sherlock. “But you know, the moment I stepped into 221B, I felt ... at home, despite your chaos. And when I came back earlier this year ...,” he gazes at his feet, swallowing slightly. “It felt ... right.”

Sherlock gazes at him. Never before has John admitted as much. “It did,” he agrees softly. “It does.” And before he can help himself, he adds, ”I hope you have learned your lesson about moving out.”

John’s eyes on him turn sharp. Sherlock chides himself for letting his tongue run away with him. “Well, if you’ve learned yours about leaving and almost getting yourself killed.”

Sherlock ducks his head, laughing softly. “Touché.”

“Do you take milk, or sugar, or both?” enquires Vanessa from the kitchen area.

“Milk,” both men reply.

A short while later, she arrives with a tray and invites them to sit at the dining room table. The tea is loose leaf Darjeeling, the milk organic, and there are three different kinds of biscuits, all artisan things from a farmer’s market or the high-price shelf of the supermarket. They look tempting, though.

John has noticed Sherlock’s hungry look, because he pushes the biscuits in front of him. “I’m working, John,” he resists feebly.

“Yes. But you also haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

“Says he who skipped lunch,” counters Sherlock. “Moreover, Mrs. Hudson insisted on me having a slice of toast for breakfast, and I couldn’t refuse her.” Still, to humour John (and because he really is hungry), he takes one of the almond biscuits and nibbles at it, before pushing the plate back to John with a stern but inviting glance. John holds his eyes for a moment, before smiling softly and helping himself.

Vanessa Warrington has watched their exchange with interest. “I hope I’m not being too forward, but—”

“No, we aren’t,” Sherlock forestalls her question. “We live together, and John helps me with cases – and writes them up, sometimes.”

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to imply anything. It’s just ... Daniel and I were wondering. Some entries on your blog rather sound like—”

“Well, if you read the blog carefully, you may also recall that John was married until a while ago. We are friends and flat-mates, nothing more.”

Sherlock doesn’t understand why he is so angry of a sudden. Formerly, he never bothered with correcting people about the status of their relationship. It always used to be John who did, insisting they weren’t a couple, that he wasn’t gay. Sherlock never felt bothered by people’s assumptions. In fact, in a way he was touched. Touched that people would believe that someone as brilliant as John Watson might be interested in him, might choose him as his partner. Only, the truth is that John isn’t interested in him that way, never was and never will be. Sherlock might as well stop deceiving himself with false hope and count himself lucky that John is his friend. He can’t expect anything other than that, and should learn to be content. And most of the time, he is. Only occasionally a deep yearning for something else, something he’s never experienced before takes hold of him.

John seems surprised by his brisk statement. He is eyeing him thoughtfully, with a trace of sadness in his expression. Sherlock assumes this is due to him mentioning his failed marriage.

Vanessa seems to understand that the topic is a rather fraught one. Sherlock prefers to concentrate on the matter at hand, too, and steers the conversation back to Tiffany.

“Tell me, Vanessa, does Tiffany have many friends, either here in the village or at school?”

She shakes her head. “Sadly, no. She never appears to miss them, though, or actively seek to make more. She seems to get along well enough with her classmates, though. We haven’t heard of any instances of bullying or the like. She’s a good student, if a little quiet, according to the teachers. In fact, her intelligence appears to be above average. We had her tested last year, and considered having her skip a year at school but then decided against it because she’s still quite small for her age, and we didn’t want to part her from the few friends she does have. Her best friend is Pippa, who lives a short walk away, near the church. They’ve known each other since they were very young. Pippa’s mother Caroline is one of my colleagues from work, and a good friend. Her husband Stephen is a friend of Daniel’s. That’s where Tiffany spent last night, and Caroline assured me that she had breakfast there in the morning with her and Pippa and her little brother. The two girls then went out to walk the dog – usually, they do a round on the recreation ground. That’s a safe area, far away from the roads, particularly the A24 that bypasses the village and is really busy and dangerous. After that, according to Caroline and Pippa, Tiffany fetched her things and went home. Only, she never arrived here.”

Sherlock nods thoughtfully. “You said there were no instances of bullying at school – none that you know of, at least. But bullying can be very subtle. Has Tiffany ever complained about the other children teasing her? I take it she isn’t the most popular girl in her class. From how you described her, she appears to be a bit of an outsider, minding her own business and pursuing her own interests. That doesn’t always go down well with other children. Neither does above average intelligence.”

Vanessa thinks for a while, then shakes her head. “No, I can’t think of any instance I heard of that she had trouble that way. She never made the impression of being unhappy, never asked for much, even though she sometimes refused things we bought for her, and which she considered too ‘girly’. I don’t quite understand her in this. Earlier this year, we had a bit of a row because she desperately wanted to have her ears pierced. It was a thing then with the girls. Pippa’s had her ears pierced at a young age, and the girls in class were all into earrings and fashion. I mean, the way girls are, right? Daniel was all right with the earrings, but I insisted that she wait until she was a little older. I’ve had my ears pierced as a child on my granny’s insistence, and have always had problems with infections since. Anyway, after several discussions, some tears and sulks and slammed doors – all very unusual for her as she isn’t known for emotional outbreaks – one day Tiffany returned from school declaring that she didn’t want her ears pierced any longer. I was surprised, asked why. She said she’d noticed that she was the only girl in her class with unpierced ears. And suddenly, for her, that was the coolest thing ever. And that’s what she’s like, Tiffany. She doesn’t mind being different. The older she gets, the more she seems to want to be special, apart from the others. It worries me a little, to be honest. I mean, normally everybody tries to fit in somehow, don’t they?”

“Fitting in is overrated,” states Sherlock.

Vanessa takes a long look at him and nods. She bites her lip, obviously considering whether to enquire about Sherlock’s past. Eventually, she decides to give it a try. “Daniel didn’t divulge a lot about what happened when you were children, but I gathered that he and Chris and their cousin Tom used to bully you, likely precisely because you seemed different from them and didn’t bother to fit in.”

“I doubt Daniel described it in these terms,” replies Sherlock, surprised by her courage.

Vanessa smiles faintly. “You’re right, he didn’t. It’s what I read between the lines. He should be here soon.”

Sherlock takes another sip of tea, then steeples his hands under his chin, looking at Vanessa gravely. “While he is still out, why don’t you enlighten us a little about the state of your marriage.”

Next to him, John clears his throat again. “Sherlock,” he warns softly.

Sherlock turns to him and frowns. “What? It’s important.” Turning back to Vanessa, he says, “You mentioned that there are growing differences between you, that Tiffany’s ‘abduction’ may be the last straw. For the past months, you, at least, have been considering divorce. Likely, you and Daniel have talked about it. What is going on – apart from the affairs you and Daniel are having on the side?”

Vanessa pales visibly. The tea-cup in her hand trembles slightly. She sets it down. “How—”

“Oh, come on, Vanessa. You hired me. You know what I do. One look at your tweets about your outing to Ibiza with the girls told me everything I needed to know about your extramarital activities. Does Daniel know what happened?”

Staring at her cup, she swallows, and shakes her head. “No. It wasn’t ... I mean, it was a short fling. He was one of the dance instructors at our hotel. It’s over now, I never meant for it to last. And I felt entitled to it, after finding out what is still going on with his secretary. I mean,” her voice and expression have turned hard and bitter, “the _secretary._ How embarrassingly predictable can you get?”

“You are considering divorce.”

“Yes. We ... we’ve talked about it. Nothing definite, though. There’s Tiffany to consider, of course. And also ... it’s a big step, divorce.”

“You’d be willing to forgive your husband’s transgression, then?” enquires John. He looks troubled, and no wonder. This must be hitting close to home.

She shrugs, running a hand through her hair. “I don’t know. Sometimes, I think I should. I’ve had my revenge, after all. But then ... I don’t know. I just don’t.”

“Does Tiffany know about your divorce talks?” asks Sherlock.

“No. We made sure not to talk about these things in front of her. I mean, eventually, she must know, of course, should we decide to take that step. But for now we didn’t want to worry her. She may have noticed that things are a bit tense at the moment. But she may think it’s because Daniel’s away from home so much because of his job. And he really has been travelling a lot lately, what with Brexit and everything. It’s not that he’s just been away from home spending time with ... her.”

Sherlock nods thoughtfully. It all fits together.

“Thank you, Vanessa. While we wait for your husband, I’d like to have a look at Tiffany’s room, and then talk to Ellie Cushiel next door.”

“You know Ellie?” asks Vanessa in astonishment.

Sherlock nods. “Yes. Not sure she’ll remember me, though. It was a long time ago. But she looked after me, and fed me when I didn’t feel like attending meals at this house.”

Vanessa eyes him thoughtfully. “They really bothered you, didn’t they, Daniel and the others?”

Sherlock shrugs. “They were the opposite of kind.”

A moment of silence ensues, until Vanessa says, “I really do hope that Tiffany wasn’t bullied at school. I’d know a thing like that, wouldn’t I? Someone would have said something. Did your parents know?”

Sherlock sighs. He doesn’t exactly want to be reminded of his childhood, and John’s grave, pitying look doesn’t help.

“They knew I didn’t like spending time with my cousins, and that I didn’t get along with other children. Various attempts at diagnoses were made to explain my ... otherness. I didn’t have friends, didn’t seek any, and forcing me to socialise with other children routinely ended in disaster. They believed they were helping me, though, to develop social skills and the like. I didn’t feel the need to tell them what happened when I had to try and get along with others, because they wouldn’t have been able to help, anyway, and would likely only have made things worse if they decided to meddle. Also, they would have worried and, deep down, pitied me. I didn’t want any of that. So I thought, at least.”

Vanessa nods, her expression thoughtful. “I see.” She draws a deep breath, takes a sip of her tea, then fusses with her hair again – a clear sign of nerves that betrays how worried she really is, despite her outwardly cool and composed appearance.

There is another awkward silence, until John asks “Have you considered what a potential motive for abducting her could be? Do you suspect anybody? Often, these crimes are committed by relatives, friends of the family, the like. People the children know and trust.”

Vanessa stirs out of her thoughts. Sherlock suppresses a faint smile. Precious John, always there to save the day. And to construct completely wrong theories about crimes that nevertheless tend to put Sherlock on the right track. Conductor of light indeed.

“Yes, we did consider several possibilities,” replies Vanessa, “but none seems viable. I mean, we’re ... quite well off, with the house and everything. Daniel’s job pays well, and mine is adequate, too. But since there hasn’t been any mention of a ransom yet, I don’t know if they are even after money. We’d pay, of course, should we be able afford it.”

“Do you have any enemies who’d want to harm you by kidnapping your daughter?” John wants to know. “Jealous colleagues, ex-lovers, family members who feel as if they got the short end of the stick when it comes to matters of inheritance? Sherlock said Daniel inherited his parents’ house after they died. What happened to his younger brother? Maybe he feels he got short shrift.”

“Christopher?” Vanessa actually laughs. “God, no, Chris would never do such a thing. For one, he isn’t even in the country. He’s an IT specialist and moved to San Francisco several years ago. We don’t have much contact with him. Last thing I heard, he was working for Apple. He’s got a partner there, and three kids, though none of them are his own. I can’t see any reason why he’d want to hurt us. When Daniel got the house, Christopher received his share of the fortune in cash, so they’re even, and I never heard Chris complain that things weren’t divided up evenly and fairly.”

“Are there any other members of either your or Daniel’s family you’ve had quarrels with in the past?” asks John.

Vanessa thinks for a moment, then shakes her head. “There’ve been some minor squabbles, usually over Christmas when everybody is assembled in one place. But never anything serious.”

“What about friends, then, or romantic partners?”

She snorts. “I’d like to pretend that Daniel’s bird has her fingers in this mess, trying to force us apart so that she can marry him and stop working, because he’ll provide for her. The stupid cow.”

“You know her?”

“Well, not know, precisely. I met her at company parties. And yes, all right, sometimes I stalk her on Facebook.”

“You’re still interested in keeping your husband, then?” enquires Sherlock. “Why? You obviously don’t need him for financial support, and your emotional attachment has diminished, too, after his affair. As you said, you have a well-paying job, and yet were you to get a divorce, he’d have to provide for Tiffany.” He frowns. “Or is this sentiment?”

Vanessa laughs grimly. “Yes indeed, sentiment. I’ve asked myself the same question, over and over again. I should kick him out, or leave with Tiffany. But ... he’s still her dad. And like I said, I’ve already had my revenge. I don’t know. First we need her back. That’s the most important thing right now.”

“Indeed it is,” agrees Sherlock, surprised at how gentle his voice sounds. He isn’t getting soft, is he? “I’d like to see her room.”

“Of course, follow me.”

 

**– <o>–**

 

It is with some strange, entirely irrational sense of dread that Sherlock ascends the stairs behind Vanessa. They look different: the carpet has been removed and the wood polished and sealed. But with disturbing clarity, he recalls falling down the last few steps, back when he was five or six, when either Daniel or Christopher pushed him. He didn’t hurt himself much, the shock of suddenly tumbling and falling worse than the actual impact. But he recalls the feeling of helplessness, of not trusting the adults to punish the perpetrators, of swearing never to turn his back to his cousins again.

“Sherlock, you okay?” John’s soft voice sounds behind him, tethering him to the present. He nods, realising that he has stopped in the middle of the stairs, and continues to climb.

In the bedroom, which is Daniel’s old one (of course it is), Sherlock’s gaze is immediately drawn towards the wardrobe. It stands in a different place, but looks the same but for a long _Harry Potter_ poster attached to one door. Interestingly, it seems small now and less threatening. _Was I ever small enough to fit in there?_ Sherlock wonders.

The room is quite tidy, and shows a surprising lack of pink and what might be considered ‘girlish’ things. Some Barbie dolls and their horses can be seen peeking out of a large IKEA cardboard box in a corner, but they don’t look like they’ve seen a lot of use in recent years. They’re not new, though. Some clearly are 1980s models, may even have some collector’s value now. Vanessa’s dolls, then.

A small zoo of stuffed animals lives on the bed that is covered with a blanket showing stars and spaceships and some hairy creature that looks like a walking carpet behind a gun-wielding space-cowboy type. It’s one of few items that actually displays a brand. Sherlock has seen the carpet-man before, but he must have deleted the context. Likely, it’s a well-known franchise, but it’d be embarrassing to ask John. _Star Wars?_ Could that be it? Well, it doesn’t matter.

In fact, John doesn’t look like he has even noticed the blanket, or any details of the room. He is still standing near the door. To an outsider, his expression might look politely interested, but Sherlock sees the tension in his body, the way his hands clench at his sides, his expression, so carefully, carefully controlled to not show emotion. Sherlock can only guess at the storm that must be raging inside. As he has in the past, he wishes John would, for once, not try to weather it but let it out. Scream, cry, kick or punch something. The only time he has witnessed it was with Mary during their domestic at 221B, and even that was subdued and didn’t reveal the full extent of John’s frustration and hurt.

Actually, it hurts Sherlock to see him like that, hurts him deeply. He knows that in a small way, he, too, is responsible for the fact that John is never going to see his daughter’s room, never experience her accumulate toys and stuffed animals, never scold her for drawing on the wallpaper, never buy her a carpet-man blanket should she wish for one, or discuss the advantages and disadvantages of pierced ears with her.

Sherlock wishes he could do something, anything, to wipe this vacant and yet so pained expression off John’s face. This can’t continue indefinitely. There must be a way for John to be reunited with his child should he so wish. Mycroft must know where she is. After all, he helped arrange her disappearance. Swallowing slightly because he knows that the price is potentially going to be high, Sherlock vows to contact him once they’ve solved this case. He’ll do it for John, as he does almost everything, whatever the cost to himself.

Apparently feeling Sherlock’s gaze on him, John snaps back into himself. He looks slightly embarrassed, doesn’t meet Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock makes a show of concentrating on the room again so as not to extend the awkward moment.

Between the foot of the bed and the desk at the window, a cave-like structure has been built out of pillows and blankets. Several books lie inside, likely those that didn’t fit onto the over-stuffed shelves anymore. In fact, the room almost looks like a small library. Apart from age-appropriate novels that seem to be leaning more towards the fantasy or adventure genre than ponies and teenage girls, there are plenty of books about animals and nature, and several large tomes with maps and charts Tiffany inherited from her paternal grandparents. Sherlock remembers looking through them whenever he managed to escape from the other children.

His favourite book is there as well, partly hidden between two large almanacs about South America: a book about Dutch and Flemish Old Masters from the early Renaissance. He doubts Vanessa knows about its presence in her daughter’s room. Sherlock remembers sitting in the cupboard under the stairs looking at the large colour plates in the light of the small, naked light-bulb hanging from the ceiling. There was lots of blood, and people being beheaded or otherwise killed. Some were eaten by monsters and devils, too. There were strange, surreal creatures in the paintings of Hieronymus Bosch, but also scenes by Bruegel depicting rural life and brimming with minute detail that occupied Sherlock for hours.

Not for the first time he wonders whether Tiffany has inherited some of his traits. They seem to be running in his mother’s side of the family. Certainly, neither Aunt Mabel nor Daniel displayed many of them, so perhaps curiosity, the desire for constant intellectual stimulation and fear of boredom skipped a generation or two. But there is so much about Tiffany that sounds achingly familiar that Sherlock can almost see himself in her shoes.

He takes his time wandering through the room that could have been his thirty years ago – well, the Barbies would have been good for experiments, wouldn’t they? – checking the drawers of the desk, stooping to gaze under the bed and to look into the blanket cave. Eventually, he turns to face Vanessa who is hovering in the middle of the room looking anxious.

“Apart from what Tiffany had with her when she left to spend the night at her friend’s, can you think of anything that’s missing here?” Sherlock asks.

Vanessa takes a long look around. “I can’t think of anything right now. She had a small bag with her containing her pyjamas, a jumper, her toothbrush and other toiletries, a towel, likely her little pencil case and her notebook, her phone ... and at least one book, likely more. And sweets for Pippa, Benjamin and herself. Oh, and dog treats. We got some the last time we went to the supermarket.”

Sherlock nods. “Which book?”

Vanessa steps over to the shelves and checks them. “I can’t keep them all apart. She has so many. But I think the last one she was reading was the final novel in her favourite series. Something with a shepherd, I think.”

“ _The Shepherd’s Crown?”_ asks John, who has just looked up the title on his phone. Vanessa nods.

“Yes, that’s the one. She’s read it once already, at least, and seemed quite upset about the author dying as I’ve mentioned. Apparently, one of her favourite characters dies, too, in the book. She seemed very moved by it, drew several pictures of the characters.”

“Where are these pictures?” Sherlock wants to know.

Vanessa opens the lowest drawer of the desk and withdraws an A3 portfolio, which she opens on the table. It contains a thick stack of child drawings, dating back to when Tiffany first started to scribble with crayons. The more recent ones lie on top. For a child her age, Sherlock thinks they are already quite accomplished. She obviously enjoys drawing and practices it regularly. Moreover, she seems to be a keen observer who pays close attention to her surroundings. The topmost drawing shows a meadow with sheep and a barrow crowned with ancient hawthorn. The sheep look surprisingly naturalistic. Several kinds of vegetation are depicted faithfully, marking them as flora growing on chalky ground such as the local Downs. Sherlock even spots a blue butterfly – next to several small blue men with kilts and flaming red hair. Up in the sky, a witch wearing a blue dress and a pointy hat is flying on a broomstick. The hat looks unfinished, since only its outline is drawn, making it seem transparent.

“Wow,” comments John next to Sherlock, looking over his shoulder. “This is pretty good for a ten year old. I couldn’t draw like that.”

Sherlock nods. “She enjoys drawing, doesn’t she?”

“Yes,” nods Vanessa. “We try to support her in that, as in most other things.”

Sherlock leafs through the drawings. Most of the recent ones appear to be inspired by the books with the little blue men. Interestingly, whenever the girl with the immaterial hat is depicted, she bears an unmistakable resemblance to Tiffany. Sherlock doesn’t know how the character is described in the books – I must read up on that, he thinks – but it is obvious that Tiffany identifies strongly with the protagonist.

Next to him, Sherlock feels Vanessa twitch nervously. Likely, she is getting impatient as it’s not evident how the investigation they have conducted so far is going and how all of this is supposed to help find her.

Sherlock sighs. Reassurance, how tedious. “I need to know as much as possible about Tiffany’s habits and her character,” he explains, waving a hand round the room. “We are going to find her, never fear. This isn’t an attempt at delaying—”

He falls silent abruptly when his eyes fall on yet another drawing. It shows the Tiffany character with the blue dress and the pointy hat again. There are sheep, too, and in the background what looks like a circle of trees on a hill-top. Sherlock swallows. The trees look very familiar. And even more familiar than the landscape is the figure next to the young witch.

He stares at it, swallows again, and stares some more. His fingers have begun to shake slightly, and it takes great effort to pull himself together. This can’t be. It’s impossible. Or is it?

“I’d,” he clears his throat because his voice has gone hoarse of a sudden, “I’d like to photograph some of the images, because they seem to show local landmarks.”

Vanessa, obviously oblivious of his shock, nods. “Yes, this one here looks like Chanctonbury Ring up on the hill. Have you ever been there? Tiffany loves that place.”

“Yes, I’ve been there, many years ago,” says Sherlock quietly. He withdraws his phone from the inner pocket of his jacket and begins to snap photographs of the most recent pictures, particularly of the one showing Tiffany with her strange, impossible friend.

He is almost done when he hears the door downstairs slam shut. A jolt of adrenaline rushes through Sherlock. He knows who has just arrived. Against his will, he tenses. He scolds himself. The arrival of his cousin shouldn’t affect him so. After all, they’re not children anymore, and he isn’t the person with the missing daughter and the failing marriage. Nevertheless, try as he might, he can’t seem to rid himself of the memories. Standing in Daniel’s old room with the dratted wardrobe and the same view over the front yard out of the window, it’s hard to shake off sentiment.

“We’re upstairs in Tiffany’s room,” Vanessa calls down.

Footsteps sound on the stairs. Not too quick and eager, Sherlock notices. Apparently he’s not the only one apprehensive of meeting his relative.

Daniel hasn’t changed much since his parents’ funeral. His hair has receded a little from his forehead, and there are some greying strands amidst the brown. He wears it shorter now. He still looks fit, thanks to running and playing football. He works out a little at the gym, too, his frame and the musculature of his arms suggest. His tan is not entirely from sunlight, either. He is still wearing a business shirt and jeans – no strict dress-code at his workplace, then – but has rolled up the sleeves and got rid of his tie. His watch and shoes are new and of understated expensiveness, both of German make, likely bought at Manufactum during a recent business trip to Frankfurt. All in all, he looks like he’s leading a successful, fairly happy life – were it not for the lines of worry round his mouth. Sherlock wonders whether worry for his daughter has deepened them, or if they are rather due to stress in his job and his relationships.

Daniel halts in the door, giving Sherlock a long and undeniably curious once-over. Sherlock wonders what he, with his limited abilities at observation and deduction, learns about him. Suddenly, he wishes he had brought his coat. He feels small and vulnerable without his armour of Irish tweed, and hates himself for it. After all, he knows he cuts a sleek, professional and even somewhat dashing figure in his Spencer Hart suit. At least that’s what Mrs. Hudson and even John have claimed over the years. Usually, he can use his appearance to impress and even intimidate people, even though deep down he considers himself ungainly and not very attractive with his disproportionate body and alien-looking face.

It’s Daniel who breaks eye-contact first. “Hello, Sherlock,” he greets his cousin, sounding as awkward as Sherlock feels. Daniel turns to John. “And you must be Dr. Watson. Thanks for coming.”

He holds out his hand, and John shakes it. With a spark of joy, Sherlock notices how John scans Daniel very carefully and not without suspicion. One foot out of line, and John is there to step on it. _Always ready to defend me,_ Sherlock thinks, warmth suffusing him and buoying his confidence.

“Daniel,” Sherlock acknowledges him with a brief nod. “Did you learn anything about Tiffany’s last whereabouts after she set out from her friend’s? That was the purpose of your going round the village, wasn’t it?”

Daniel looks a little taken aback by the direct question, but quickly overcomes his surprise. “Cutting right to the point, I see,” he remarks.

“Well, we haven’t been summoned here for a social call, have we?” returns Sherlock curtly.

Daniel sighs. “Of course, of course. Sadly, my tour hasn’t yielded anything of use. Most of the neighbours weren’t home this morning, and those that were either didn’t pay attention or weren’t outdoors or looking out of the windows. Nobody saw any strangers around, no cars they didn’t recognise, no tradesmen they didn’t know. This is a small village, as you know. Normally, most people know each other around here. I’ve knocked on every door, although not everybody is home. Some are on holiday. It’s almost as if she vanished into thin air. I haven’t spoken to the children yet because most of them are still out and about and I didn’t want to worry them. You know how quickly strange rumours tend to spread. Some of them may have seen her, though. The parents promised me to ask them and to call back. The only person who recalled anything unusual was old Ellie from next door. Perhaps you remember her, Sherlock. She’s really getting on now, has recently had her eightieth birthday. She told me that this afternoon when she let Milly out of the front door – Milly is her cat – she saw someone near our house, running away. She didn’t recognise them because she wasn’t wearing her glasses, but she believes it was a child, judging from the size. But that’s all. Moreover Ellie’s ... well, Ellie. She really is rather dotty now, and even before old age she was ... odd. She sometimes sees things that aren’t there. She used to talk to her stuffed dogs, for God’s sake. Still, she seems to be our only witness, if we feel inclined to believe her.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow at the mocking way Ellie is described. Back when he was a child, she did strike him as somewhat odd, but in a refreshing, genuinely unique way. So she talked to the remains of her dogs. So what? He talks to the skull, and to John when he isn’t there. There is nothing weird or shocking about it. It helps him think.

“I’d like to talk to her,” he tells Daniel brusquely. “Old ladies are a brilliant source of both gossip and evidence. They see and hear everything. Never dismiss the value of inquisitive old ladies.”

He watches Daniel and Vanessa exchange a doubtful glance as they ponder his professional credentials if he relies on witnesses like Ellie.

“He’s right,” falls in John. “Never underestimate nosy neighbours. He’s solved a couple of tricky cases because they provided vital clues.”

Daniel gives John a haughty glance Sherlock wants to kick him for. John, too, recognises the expression. He stands a little straighter – still a head shorter than Daniel who is slightly taller than Sherlock, with broader shoulders, too. John seems much taller, though. To Sherlock, he looks ready for a confrontation. He is curious as to how that would play out. So far, Daniel has been surprisingly civil, as indeed he should be. After all, he’s the one needing their help, not the other way round.

“We’ve already asked your wife, Mr. Warrington,” John now addresses him. “Can you think of anybody who’d want to harm your daughter – or rather you – by abducting her.”

Daniel shakes his head vigorously. “No. God, no. Vanessa and I have already racked our brains about that. I mean, there’s always the odd instance of colleagues bitching at our respective jobs. Recently, we’d had a bit of contention with the local council concerning the proposal to build a wind farm on the nearby Downs. I mean, we’re both for sustainable energy and all that, but to have these wind turbines right here, on our very doorstep? We were rather active in petitioning against it, and most of the locals joined in for obvious reasons.”

John frowns at this. “Aren’t the South Downs protected? This area is part of the National Park, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is,” says Vanessa. “But someone found a legal loophole and strongly campaigned for the wind farm, stating the usual things like bringing jobs to the region and all that. It all sounded dodgy, though. I deal with similar proposals on a daily basis at my job, and this thing ... there was something off about it. Our legal team couldn’t quite work out what it was, but to me it sounded as if someone was trying to launder money, or avoid paying taxes by investing in an eco-friendly project. So yes, we drummed up support against the project. Nearly everybody in the village signed the petition, as did many other communities on the Downs.”

“What happened with the proposal?” John wants to know.

“It’s been put on hold because of Brexit. EU money would have gone into it, which now is questionable. But it’s not been ruled out completely by the local government yet.” Vanessa’s face is turning hard and bitter. “I have an inkling that certain people there have been lining their pockets. Several others think so, but of course we can’t prove anything. Someone has gone to great lengths to make it all look legal. To me and many others, the whole thing stinks, though.”

“But I can’t imagine why anybody would single out our family to get back at us because of the trouble we caused with the petition, or the awareness-raising campaign we were involved in,” muses Daniel. “I mean, here in Washington, we were pretty vocal. Vanessa did some campaigning in Worthing, too, and even went to London twice to protest. But other people are far more involved in the whole matter than we are.”

Sherlock nods thoughtfully. He’s tried to imagine what the Downs would look like studded with wind turbines. From an economic view, planting them there would certainly make sense, as the hills are exposed, and wind-swept because of it. But surely there are other, more profitable locations for a wind farm, riddled with fewer restrictions due to ecological measures, too. No wonder the locals are upset. John always says that wind farms are way better than atomic power-plants, but Sherlock doubts that even John would be in favour of a place this beautiful suddenly being riddled with machines.

As for Sherlock himself, he remembers what the Downs looked like thirty years ago, how uniquely, heartbreakingly beautiful they were. The A24 Washington Bypass that cuts right through them seemed like an abomination. And other than the road, he’s already witnessed part of their destruction in the past, and still bears the scars from it. No, he decides, he wouldn’t condone any further meddling. People should leave them in peace.

“I doubt whoever is behind the abduction did it for political purposes,” he says curtly, fighting down another wave of nostalgia brought on by thinking about the Downs. “Kidnapping is a severe offence. If someone wanted to put pressure on you to sway your opinion or end your support of the petition, they’d find plenty of ammunition for blackmail online.”

Vanessa looks contrite, and Daniel blushes. “What do you mean?” he asks sharply.

Sherlock sighs. “Your affair with your secretary is not a big secret. In fact, not a secret at all. You can rest assured that most of your co-workers know, even if so far they have kept silent. The woman in question hasn’t been that cautious, though. She has been hinting about it quite heavily on social media. Perhaps you should have a word with her. Evidence to prove your affair wouldn’t be hard to come by, either online or in the form of receipts, bookings and the like. Personal correspondence, too, although apparently you’re using a second phone to communicate with her. She, however, doesn’t.”

“How do you know that?” blusters Daniel.

Sherlock lifts his chin. “It’s my job to find out these things,” he returns, not caring if he sounds arrogant.

“Oh yeah, the job you invented for yourself because you messed up a proper academic career by doing drugs and spending a considerable time in rehab?” Daniel strikes back heatedly.

Sherlock feels John twitch angrily at his side, and he gives a minute shake of head to calm him. This is his business. He can handle Daniel now. He thinks.

“Yes, this job precisely. Consulting Detective, the only one in the world. And let’s not mention drug use, shall we? You had your own experiences at university, and they were far more varied and extensive than mine.”

“What?”

Sherlock shrugs nonchalantly. “It’s only ever been nicotine or cocaine for me. You, on the other hand, experimented quite a lot. Still do, in fact, although now you claim they’re simply ‘performance enhancing’ when it comes to your sporting activities.”

“I ... so yeah. So what? Everybody tries out a few things at uni,” huffs Daniel.

“I didn’t,” falls in Vanessa. “I didn’t even get properly drunk back then.”

Daniel is about to utter what has the potential of a nasty reply, but John is quicker.

“Are we here to discuss Sherlock’s credentials or past missteps, or to find your child?” he asks. “You called us here to help you, knowing that without involving the police, you’ll need somebody like him. He invented this job for himself because he’s genuinely, truly bloody good at it. Ask Scotland Yard, and the countless people he’s helped. So please, stop your bickering, and let’s get going. A child may be in danger here. The two of you should be glad you’ve got one, a healthy kid who lives with you, I mean. Not everybody is so lucky. So do take this seriously, okay? I’d like to talk to your neighbour, Ellie. She seems to be the only person round here who’s actually seen anything useful today.”

A moment of silence follows his short speech. Daniel’s eyes narrow as he takes in John’s stance, his bristling, barely disguised anger. Sherlock doubts that he sees the underlying sadness as well. Daniel casts a quick glance at Sherlock, too, and something flashes in his eyes. Sherlock think he knows what thought has come into Daniel’s mind, and as so often when people believe or imply that John and he are a couple, he wishes it were true. He wonders what people see when they assume they’re together. So many do, and have done right from the start. Angelo with his candle that first night. It hasn’t stopped since. Is it just the strong friendship between them? Or is it more? And how come that if there is more, or something different than whatever friendship is supposed to be, that neither John nor Sherlock seem able to define it, to pin it down, to articulate it. Sherlock can read people quite well, he’s even getting better at reading and understanding their emotions, but with John, it seems impossible. They could just talk, of course. But this option is so dreadful, so potentially lethal to their friendship that neither is even considering it. John tried, earlier, back at Baker Street, and Sherlock could tell how uncomfortable he was. It’s a mess, whatever sits between them, drawing them together and keeping them apart at the same time.

“Yes, let’s go and talk to Ellie,” suggests Vanessa. “Unless there is anything else you need to see in this house, Sherlock.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “All done here.”

She nods and leads the way. John follows, casting a last wistful glance round the room that pulls at the strings of Sherlock’s heart. He is about to step out of the room when Daniel stops him by planting himself in the doorway, looking at Sherlock from narrowed eyes.

Sherlock sighs. “What is it now, Daniel?” he asks, keeping his words even.

“Why are you here?”

Sherlock frowns. “Because your wife and you asked us to come. Reluctantly in your case, I am sure. Why? Is there anything you’d like to tell me about your daughter’s disappearance? You know, in nine out of ten cases of disappearing children, a family member is behind it.”

“What? No! You seriously believe that I could be involved in something like this? That’s low, even for you.”

“I am simply being realistic. Often these dramas play out in close-knit families. And you and your wife have a lot at stake, and a lot to account for.”

“Does she have a lover?” Daniel blurts out, suddenly looking a lot less sure of himself.

“That’s for her to tell, not me.”

Daniel huffs angrily. “Oh, come on, you blurted out my affair for everyone to hear. You must know about her, too, by looking at the colour of her fingernails or something.”

“How about you simply talk to her for a change? Seriously, I don’t understand it, Daniel. You have a good life here. You have enough money to live comfortably, you have a wife and child I suppose you love. Why risk all that by engaging in an affair, and trying to keep it secret, too, instead of coming clean? You should be happy and content in your situation.”

Daniel’s eyes narrow again. “What do you know about relationships, anyway? Have you ever had a serious one – apart from that sex thing that was all over the papers a while ago? To be honest, I can’t imagine it. I mean, who’d want to date a freak like you? You haven’t changed at all from when we were kids.”

For a brief moment, Sherlock feels transported back thirty years ago and sees the doors of the wardrobe close in on him. The F-word. He is surprised how much it still smarts, coming from Daniel’s mouth. He’s heard it many times, from a great number of people. He’s developed a thick skin over the years, so that now when people like Sally Donovan use it occasionally, he knows that she means it with a measure of humour, even respect. He _is_ the Freak, Scotland Yard’s very own, and they have come to understand and appreciate his value, and even seem to like him a little. But hearing it from Daniel again hurts with unexpected force, tearing up old scars he thought had healed long ago.

“Neither have you, I see,” returns Sherlock fiercely. “Still the bully, still picking on people you don’t understand. Remember that you asked for my help. I could simply walk out of here now and drive back to London.”

“And leave a child in danger, how very like you. Dad always said you were a psychopath.”

“High-functioning sociopath, Daniel. There’s a difference. Look it up. And now if you’re done insulting me, would you step out of the way so I can get the job done. Neither of us is interested in this taking any longer than it needs to.”

Daniel’s chin jerks up defiantly. Apparently he is not done. Sherlock braces himself for another verbal blow.

“You didn’t answer my question about Vanessa,” he says.

“I did. I told you it was her business. Sit down and talk, you two, that’s my answer. About your future. About what you expect of the other. About what you feel, if you must. And make sure to include Tiffany, once she’s back. It concerns all three of you.”

He takes a deep breath, gazing at Daniel steadily. “Of course, feel free to dismiss my advice. What do I know, anyway? You are right, I have no personal experience with relationships, sexual or otherwise. If you want to know, the ‘sex-thing’ in the papers was a fake. The woman in question invented it to get back at me for treating her badly. She made enough money with the story to buy a cottage, so I believe it worked out well for her in the end. Funny idea, though, to present me as an insatiable lover. _Me.”_

He gives a short, humourless laugh. “You nailed the other thing, too. I’m not like other people. I am a freak. Others don’t know how to regard me, and they fear and hate me for my otherness, and I’m okay with that. Or used to be. I didn’t mind if the other children – you and Christopher and your friends, or my classmates at school – shunned me and didn’t want to play with me. Indifference was preferable to bullying, anyway. I didn’t look for either friendship, romance or sex at university. I spent most of the time at either the library or the lab. People left me in peace, and I appreciated that. And you know what, Daniel? Not being involved personally in all those messy, petty little affairs of libido and heart, combined with my intellect enabled me to sharpen my gaze. I am an outside observer, and a brilliant one. I see what others don’t because I remain clear-headed and objective when they become biased, their judgement muddled by emotion. I stay above all that. And that’s when I see, and when I observe, and deduce. And I see that you’ve messed up your marriage, made your wife unhappy, and gave your daughter cause to fear that her parents don’t love her because they don’t love each other anymore. Think about that. This may be your last chance to salvage what is left to salvage. And now let me do my job.”

He pushes past Daniel who steps aside with a stunned expression. Apparently he didn’t expect such a frank speech from his cousin. Sherlock rushes out of the room, his heart beating hard and fast. Has he revealed too much? He didn’t intend to tell Daniel most of what he said. The words simply gushed out. Has he made himself vulnerable now? Will Daniel use what he’s learned as ammunition for yet another vile attack?

“Sherlock?”

Storming out of the room, his mind swirling with troubling thoughts, Sherlock collides with John who has come up the stairs, apparently to look for him. One of John’s hands lands on Sherlock’s shoulder to steady him, the touch warm even through the double layer of fabric of jacket and shirt. “Sherlock, you okay? Did he bother you?”

Drawing a deep breath, Sherlock shakes his head. “I’m fine. Just the usual petty little jabs,” he adds with a dark glance over his shoulder to where Daniel has appeared in the doorway, looking thoughtful.

“Let’s go,” says Sherlock, not wanting to remain in his vicinity. John eyes him, frowning slightly, before levelling a sharp glance at Daniel. Sherlock wonders what, if anything, John has overheard of their exchange. He almost feels like laughing of a sudden. He told Daniel to talk with Vanessa about their relationship. Talking. Does that really solve problems caused by sentiment? Isn’t that just something people say, put in books or post online in those useless self-help forums? Do people actually sit down and talk about these things, ever? Sherlock thinks of his parents. They are still married after so many years and are still very much in love, almost disgustingly so. How do they manage? Do they have a weekly talking session? Surely not. How would that go, anyway? Mummy talking incessantly and Father sitting by humming softly to himself. Ah, but perhaps that’s the secret of their success. Not talking. Listening.

And what about him and John? They’d need to talk. Badly. There are so many things hovering between them, things they don’t say. ’Sherlock is actually a girl’s name’. How utterly preposterous. So yes, he was under the influence of drugs then. But seriously? That’s what he came up with when he thought he was going to his death and had one last chance of telling John how he feels? What a complete nutter. On the other hand, sitting down with John, talking ... God, no. The mere thought sends cold waves of fear down Sherlock’s spine. The instance this afternoon was scary, and then only John did the talking. It was brave of him. Sherlock doubts he has his courage. Brave John. And yet, even John didn’t touch the really deep, important issues. His talk only skimmed the surface. Because he, too, knows. Once said, things can’t be unsaid. So better not say them. Keep the status quo.

“Sherlock, what’s the matter? You’re doing the blinking thing again, you know.”

He jerks back into his body, aware of his surroundings once more. “I’m fine,” he snaps, and rushing past John, hurries down the stairs.

Behind him, he hears John mutter. “Yeah, right.”

 

**– <o>–**

 

Stepping into Ellie Cushiel’s living room is like stepping back in time. Hardly anything has changed since 1987 when Sherlock last set foot in here. The garish, flowery wallpaper is still the same pattern, although it has been replaced at least once. Two new stuffed dogs are keeping old Wuffles company. The little china figures and other kitschy paraphernalia are still the same, and almost standing in the same places on shelves, the massive chest of drawers, and the mantelpiece, lace doilies under them. The arrangements of silk flowers are still there, a little dustier now. The only real change is the large wide-screen television and the more recent photographs of various cats taking pride of place next to the picture of Ellie’s beloved dogs – she seems to have shifted to keeping cats instead of dogs ever since she lost mobility due to a mild stroke a few years ago, which left her insecure when out and about on her own, and reliant on a walking aid.

She herself hasn’t changed much, either. She looks older, and her primly permed hair is pure white now instead of dyed aubergine. She has lost some weight, too, likely following a diagnosis of diabetes. But her eyes are still as keen as they used to be (despite her high consumption of daytime telly), and even though she pretends to be dotty and a bit deaf, Sherlock can tell by her sharp, observant gaze that she’s neither as senile nor as odd as she pretends to be. He has an inkling that she also pretends to need more help around the house than she actually requires, only to guilt-trip the neighbours into regular visits to fill her in on the latest gossip, and to do the shopping and boring household tasks for her.

He remembers how thirty years ago, Ellie already had a reputation for strangeness among the Warringtons and their friends. Aunt Mabel chatted with her occasionally, and went round to borrow eggs and margarine, but from her remarks Sherlock concluded that she didn’t have a high opinion of her neighbour who she thought was sloppy and unorganised, watching telly all day and putting out washing on a Sunday (oh, the scandal) because she was too lazy to do it during the week like normal people. Uncle Richard couldn’t stand her, called her mental and once, when he was angry about her dog digging in the Warringtons’ front garden, an ‘ugly witch’.

This actually impressed Sherlock, who as a child had always been curious about Ellie who seemed so different from other people, and so much more interesting. Her being called a witch made her even more fascinating in his book, and he spent a day trying to find out if she was actually able to do magic.

Ellie has been expecting them. The television is switched off, and she seems to actually have tried and tidied up the room a little, indicated by the hastily gathered together newspapers and fluffed up pillows on the squashy sofas.

“Good evening, Ellie,” says Vanessa. “Sorry to disturb you, but Daniel said you saw something this afternoon that may help us find our little girl again.”

Ellie nods benignly as she sits in her armchair, studying Vanessa’s entourage over the rim of her spectacles. Daniel is still outside, talking on his mobile. Sherlock is relieved about his absence and scolds himself for it. Daniel shouldn’t affect him so. They’re both adults now. Right, so Daniel is still an idiot, but Sherlock isn’t the lonely little boy anymore. He has John now. For as long as John wants to stay, that is.

Right now, he stands staunchly at his side, glancing about the room with a mixture of wonder and light amusement, particularly when his eyes fall on the stuffed dogs: old Wuffles, the Wheaten Terrier, flanked now by a cream-coloured poodle and some kind of terrier mix, the latter being Mr. T whom Sherlock recalls from his childhood days.

“It’s good of you to come, Vanessa,” says Ellie gravely. “I see you have brought help.” Her eyes narrow when they scan Sherlock, and suddenly, her wrinkled face breaks into a wide, genuine smile. A golden tooth glints in her mouth.

“Goodness, I never thought I’d live to see the day,” she beams. “You are little Sherlock, aren’t you? I’d been wondering ever since I saw you get out of that car. Oh, not so little any longer, I see. Quite the striking young man now. Sit down, sit down. Would you like some tea? And biscuits, Sherlock? I remember you were very particular to my biscuits. I still keep them in the tins in the pantry. I’m sure you remember the place.”

Sherlock feels himself blush, and ducks his head. Next to him, John grins.

“And who is the handsome man at your side?”

“This is Dr. Watson, Sherlock’s assistant,” Vanessa introduces John.

Ellie studies him keenly. “Pleased to meet you, Dr. Watson.”

“John,” he says automatically, shaking her hand.

“I think we’re fine, thanks Ellie,” says Vanessa, obviously referring to the tea. Sherlock nods. He has spotted a half-solved Sudoku amidst the stack of papers. Ellie seems to have a knack for riddles and crosswords. Several crossword magazines sit in the stack. But this one wasn’t solved by her. The handwriting is different. She’s been writing with her left hand ever since her stroke, the other person was right-handed. He smiles to himself. Obvious.

“Actually, I think I’d like some of the biscuits. Bourbons, weren’t they?” he announces, eager to have a look round the kitchen. At his side, John looks surprised.

Ellie smiles. “You remember. But of course you do. Would you mind fetching them? My legs ...”

Sherlock nods. “Of course.”

Somewhat amazed that he still knows how to navigate her house after not thinking about it for twenty-nine years (and actually believing he had deleted it), he takes his time walking into the kitchen and the adjacent pantry. He finds the tins, now sitting on a lower shelf than before, and puts a couple of biscuits on a plate. The kitchen is a little tidier than he remembers. Someone has been round to clean lately, wash the dishes and the like. He casts a glance into the rubbish bin. Someone who likes ice-lollies. Interesting.

Smiling to himself, he returns to the living room, where John is in the process of explaining Sherlock’s occupation and his own role therein to Ellie. She looks suitably impressed.

“A real detective, like on the telly?” she asks. “Amazing. But then, he’s always had the brains for that. Clever, ingenious little boy. Kind, too, when the others let him. I often felt sorry for him, hence the biscuits. He was so small and skinny, I thought he needed feeding up a little.”

John’s expression is warm as he regards her. “That was very kind of you, Ellie."

“Indeed it was,” falls in Sherlock from the doorway, carrying the plate over and setting it on the coffee table, helping himself to a biscuit. The taste brings back another wave of memories. He chews quickly and swallows, aware of John watching him.

“Daniel said you saw a strange child near the Warringtons’ house this afternoon?” enquires John, helping himself to a biscuit, too. He must be hungry, thinks Sherlock. He’s been living on a few biscuits ever since this morning.

Ellie nods. Interestingly, her eyes stray to Sherlock for the briefest of moments. “Yes, I saw a child near the house.”

“Do you remember the exact time?” asks John. He has dug his small notebook and a pencil out of the breast pocket of his shirt. Sherlock is touched by the gesture. It feels like old times when John was still his resident blogger, always at his side to write down their adventures.

“Yes, it was about half past three. I had just let Milly out because she had been complaining and was watering my plants at the window. I wanted to be done in time for _Tipping Point,_ you see, which starts at four.”

“What did you see?” Sherlock wants to know.

“The street was quiet, as usual. But then I spotted what looked like a boy, with short hair. Not old, a little older than Tiffany, maybe. It was difficult to say because he was wearing strange clothes, and I didn’t have my glasses on. But I do remember thinking that the clothes looked odd. Nowadays, the young ones are always so keen on wearing the latest fashions. But not this child. His clothes looked as if they were too large, or made for someone else. And he wasn’t wearing shoes.”

Sherlock stares at her. _Naked feet. Chalky footprints on the door-mat. This can’t be._ His heartbeat picks up. “Hair colour?” he asks quickly.

“Brownish. Bit bleached by the sun, I think.”

“Did you see his face?” John wants to know.

Ellie shakes her head. “I only saw his back. And as I said, I didn’t had my glasses on.”

“Did he approach the house?” asks Vanessa excitedly.

“Not when I saw him. He was walking past. Quickly, though. Almost at running speed. It’s possible, though, that he had just been to the house.”

“To drop something off,” whispers John excitedly. He gazes at Sherlock. “Could he have brought the second letter?”

Sherlock nods slowly, his mind still whirring. “Yes.” He shakes himself slightly. _Get a grip, get a grip. It can’t be. It can’t be. There is another explanation, there must be._ “Yes, he must have. The timing is right. You were at your friend Caroline’s house then, weren’t you, Vanessa, asking about Tiffany? And Daniel was on his way home from work, leaving early because you had informed him of what had happened.”

Vanessa nods. “Yes, that’s right. Oh, I wish we had installed that camera Daniel wanted to buy last year. There were some burglaries in the neighbourhood and he wanted to invest in some CCTV equipment. But I objected. I mean, if you install a camera, you’ll have to view the tapes as well. And I didn’t want to give Tiffany the impression that we were spying on her. Now I wish we had that camera. We might have caught that strange child on tape.”

“Do you know of any children visiting in the village?” asks John.

“I asked round, of course. But nobody knew of anyone. I mean, it could be that there were some day trippers up on the Downs. We get lots of hikers and cyclists here. The South Downs Way runs right along the ridge of the Downs, and it’s very popular with visitors, particularly now during the summer holidays. Some take the buses from Worthing or Horsham and then walk up to the Downs. But a lone child ... that’s strange – or not, if he’s in cahoots with the kidnapper.”

She turns to Sherlock, looking at him imploringly. “Who’d implicate their own children in a crime like this?”

“We don’t know if anybody did, Vanessa,” cautions John. He looks worried now. Sherlock has an inkling that it’s because of him and his strange behaviour. He hates himself for being this affected. _Get a bloody grip._

He is about to reply when Daniel bursts through the door, pocketing his phone. He looks excited and rather grim. He doesn’t acknowledge Ellie, but turns to his wife.

“Stephen just phoned me. He said he walked past the sand pit near the caravan park with the dog and saw some strange cars there. It’s almost dark, the quarry’s closed. So who’d hang around there at this time of day, I wonder? Stephen thought it was suspicious. He wants to go and investigate. I’ll join him, and ask Tom and Alex, too. And we’ll call the owner. He’s bound to be angry if he learns about someone trespassing on his property again.”

“Be careful,” warns Vanessa. “And remember, they said no police.”

Daniel waves a hand. “We’ll have a look first before we call anyone. It’d be a good hiding place for the kidnappers.”

Sherlock resists the temptation to roll his eyes and comment that if a normally observant dog-walker can spot them so easily, the quarry isn’t a good hiding place after all. John is clearly thinking the same, judging from the looks he gives first Daniel and then Sherlock. The latter refrains from commenting because he is actually grateful for any distraction to lure Daniel away and get him out from under his feet.

“Yes, this sounds like a good place to investigate,” he says. John frowns, and Daniel looks pleased.

“We’ll stay here for now, and have a look round the neighbourhood,” Sherlock goes on. “There may be clues you have missed so far. Vanessa, it’d be best if you returned home immediately. The kidnappers may be in touch again tonight.”

She tenses in shock. “Of course, of course. Someone should be at home. You have my number, Sherlock. Please let me know if you find anything.”

“Of course,” he soothes. She takes her leave of Ellie and hastens out of the door, her hand lingering briefly on her husband’s shoulder.

“I’ll be off, too,” he excuses himself. “Hope there’s something to find in the quarry. Keep me in the loop of anything you find, Sherlock.”

“I will,” lies Sherlock smoothly. He will do no such thing. He plans to inform Daniel only when he has actually found the girl, and is entirely sure of what happened.

Daniel’s eyes narrow with what Sherlock reads as suspicion, but then he nods and dashes off. Sherlock is left with John and Ellie, who has watched the exchange with interest and, again, barely concealed amusement.

“He hasn’t changed much, has he, Daniel?”

Sherlock nods.

“They won’t find her in the quarry,” says Ellie mysteriously.

“I know,” replies Sherlock.

“You know where to look for her, don’t you?”

He swallows. “I do.”

Ellie gives Sherlock another of her deep, shrewd looks that betray her still sharp intellect. Then her expression softens, and she seems almost sad. “There is one thing I’ve been wondering about all this time. Whatever happened to your friend, Sherlock? The one you always fetched the extra helping of biscuits for.”

Next to him, Sherlock feels John stir and raise his head in interest.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” snaps Sherlock. This is far too close. He can’t, he mustn’t think about these things now, can’t afford the distraction.

Ellie sniffs, watches him keenly for a moment, but then smiles and reaches up to pat Sherlock’s knee. “I can see that you’ve got another now. That’s good. Keep him.”

Sherlock manages a curt nod, before fleeing outside. John says farewell for both of them and joins him on the pavement, glancing up at the darkening sky and the moon rising over the dark line of the Downs in the South-East.

“What was all this about?” he asks quietly. When Sherlock doesn’t answer, John steps closer. “What friend did she refer to?”

Sherlock closes his eyes for a brief moment, trying to collect himself. “Just the ramblings of an old woman.”

“Bullshit, Sherlock. She may be old and pretending to be a bit confused, but her mind’s still sharp. And there’s something she knows about what happened here in the past, something that concerns you, something that troubles you to this very day. Ever since we took this case, you’ve been strange. You were reluctant to take it out of consideration for me, but lost child or no, I seem to be coping better than you here. Whatever happened here when you were a boy? I can tell that it’s still weighing on your mind.”

“Nothing happened here.”

A hand to his shoulder spins him round, and he is forced to look into John’s eyes, keen and intent. “Sherlock, don’t shut me out again. Please. You’re not okay, I can see that. Don’t try and pretend that you are. Why did you never come here again? Why did you stay away for almost thirty years? What happened?”

For a moment, Sherlock considers shrugging off the hand and stalking off into the gathering dusk. But something in John’s eyes stops him. Running, they’ve always been running, the two of them. Running away from each other, from themselves and their feelings. John trusts him, and he trusts John, too. Time to prove it.

His shoulders sag as the impulse to flee leaves him. He lets out a long breath. Gazing into John’s eyes, he says, “I’ll tell you what happened, John. Twenty-nine years ago, I was forced to spend a fortnight with my hateful cousins. Most of the time, I was away, roaming the countryside. Ellie fed me occasionally, and I helped her around the house. It was a unexpectedly good time. For a while, I was truly happy.”

John nods. His hand is still resting on Sherlock’s shoulder as if he has forgotten it’s there. Sherlock can feel its warmth through shirt and jacket. It feels like sunlight.

“I see,” says John gravely. “And what about the friend? You met somebody here who didn’t torment you for a change?”

Sherlock swallows. “Yes,” he admits at length. It’s not the entire truth, but it’ll have to suffice for now. It does for John, who smiles gently, squeezing Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Good,” he says. He thinks for a moment. “Was he local? Think he’s still around?”

Sherlock frowns at that. “No, he wouldn’t—” Ellie’s words come back to him in a flash. Could it be? But no, there’s another, more plausible explanation for the stranger she saw from her window. The barefooted boy in the ill-fitting clothes. There must be. Sherlock has sorted it all out. He knows what happened with Tiffany, and why. Or has he? Could it be that he is on the wrong track entirely. That the past is about to catch up with him?

“Sherlock? Hey, Sherlock, you all right?” John’s hand is shaking his shoulder slightly. When Sherlock snaps back into the present, he sees that the other is studying him concernedly. He swallows and nods.

“Yes, I’m fine. Really, John. Don’t worry about me. I think I know where we’ll find Tiffany.”

“Really? Where? Shouldn’t we inform the Warringtons?”

“No. They wouldn’t be welcome. We’ll let them know in good time. Actually, I think it’ll do them good to stew a little longer and think about how to sort out their relationship.”

“What? I don’t understand.”

“You will. Come on, John. We have a bit of a walk ahead of us.”

“We could take the car.”

“No,” insists Sherlock. The mere thought! “We must walk. They’d notice us from afar if we drove. Moreover, there are no proper roads where we’re headed.”

“But—” John waves a hand towards the Warringtons’ house.

Sherlock growls softly, impatient to leave before they are spotted and intercepted by Vanessa again who has just switched on the light in the living room and standing silhouetted against the window. “We can phone them when we have found the girl. If it seems appropriate to inform them, that is. But we must leave now.”

“Will we need the gun?” asks John in a low voice, finally dropping his hand. Sherlock mourns the loss of warmth.

“No.” With that, Sherlock sets out down the street with John hurrying to catch up, their dark forms casting long shadows in the moonlight.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has two illustrations:


	4. The Shepherd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to all who commented on the story and the illustrations or left kudos. The two paintings for chapter 3 are finally coloured. Thank you once again to rifleman_s for excellent betaing services. I had hoped to finish this story before Series 4 started airing, but that didn't happen. It's an AU now, as it was inevitably going to be at some point, but I hope that won't put people off reading it.

_July 2016_

The song of a nightingale and the rush of traffic on the nearby A24 accompanies Sherlock and John as they walk alongside the road leading out of the village towards the bypass. The moon is almost full. It illuminates the tarmac with a silvery light. The hedges and ivy-covered trees to both sides loom dark and forbidding. When they have left the last cluster of houses of Washington behind on their right, Sherlock signs for John to follow him across the road. They have reached a patch of forest climbing a steep bank. The air smells of thuja, as several of these overshadow the road. To the left, a flinty path broad enough for a car branches off to climb the slope. It runs parallel to the road at first, before turning left to wind further up the hill.

Pleased that he has found it after all these years, Sherlock follows the path, walking briskly, with John following at a slight distance. The air is still warm, so that soon, Sherlock sheds his jacket and carries it over his arm. Glancing over his shoulder, he sees John’s dark form. He has rolled up his shirt-sleeves and opened the two topmost buttons of his shirt. What Sherlock can see of his face looks thoughtful, almost pensive. There will be more questions soon, Sherlock reckons.

Sherlock slows his steps, waiting for John to catch up. “I can virtually hear you thinking,” he says, his voice deep and a little hushed. It doesn’t seem appropriate to speak too loudly in this strange, black and sliver-hued night.

John ducks his head at his words, clearly startled out of his thoughts. He gives Sherlock a brief glance that looks a little caught out, before he trudges on, overtaking Sherlock and continuing uphill.

Sherlock wonders if he is thinking about what they have learned of the Warringtons and their familial situation, and how that corresponds with John’s: parents about to separate, child suffering the consequences. Is he worried that his own daughter will never know her father, or that some other man will eventually take his place? Does he blame himself for things not working out between him and Mary? Or is he troubled by something else entirely? He looks troubled, Sherlock thinks, but as always, his readings of John’s inner state are little more than guesses. John is so good at locking himself away.

Sherlock hurries to keep up with him. For a while, they walk side by side. He is actually surprised when eventually, John speaks.

“Yeah, well, there’s rather a lot to think about,” he replies. To Sherlock, he sounds evasive. Of course he does. As usual, they’re going to skirt around the edges of the topic for a bit without saying anything really profound, and then drop it with a witty remark or a joking reference, and both will continue to worry and hurt in silence.

 _Or you could ask,_ Sherlock’s thoughts suggest. _Ask him directly. You worry, he worries. Be forward. Ask._

 _Shut up,_ he tells them. _We don’t to that._

 _Perhaps you should,_ they insist. _You’re a detective. You ask questions, even unpleasant ones. It’s your job. Investigate._

_But he’s my friend. My closest one. I don’t want to put him off._

_As if you could. He’s seen you at your best and your worst. He knows you better than anybody else, apart from your brother, perhaps. Trust him._

Feeling bolstered by the relative darkness that casts John’s downturned face in shadow, Sherlock bites his lower lip. “Is that because of what we learned about the Warringtons’ situation?” Sherlock asks, with a tentativeness that almost appals him as it feels so alien and unlike him.

To his surprise, John gives a short laugh. He looks up, his eyes glinting dimly in the moonlight. “Actually, no. I mean, of course it made me thoughtful, the thing about their affairs and everything. Marriage not working out, and a child to take into consideration. I’d be lying if I claimed it didn’t affect me. But their situation is different from mine, and I try not to dwell too much on the latter right now. It’s rather ... I can’t help wondering what you know and what I’ve missed that makes you so sure we’ll find Tiffany wherever we’re headed. But I’ll leave the grand reveal to you, as always. I know you revel in them. And I enjoy watching when you’re in full deductive mode, glowing with your own brilliance as you point out all the little facts we mortals have overlooked despite them being perfectly obvious.”

He runs a hand through his hair, looking a little bashful, almost embarrassed. “So yeah, of course I’m wondering what happened to Tiffany. Truth is, though, I was thinking about something else”.   A quick, furtive glance at Sherlock. _Definitely embarrassed._

Sherlock frowns. “What else?”

John licks his lips. “Well, I couldn’t exactly prevent overhearing what you said to your cousin before you came down the stairs from Tiffany’s room.”

“Actually, you could have prevented that,” Sherlock points out.

“Yeah, well,” John shrugs. “I didn’t want to. I’d come back up the stairs to see if you needed ... you know ...”

“Protection?”

“Yeah, I guess. Something of the kind. Support. He’s still an arse, Daniel, and a bully.”

“That’s true.”

“The things he said to you, about you being a freak and all that. You know that it’s not true, don’t you? You’re not a freak.”

Sherlock sighs. “It depends on the definition of the term.”

Suddenly, John looks angry, his eyes hard and flinty. “You’re not that weird, unlovable creature he believes you are – and which in fact _you_ often believe you are, wrongly believe, may I add. He only calls you that because he secretly envies you for your intellect and the fact you don’t give a shit about what people think of you. I believe deep down, he’d like to be more like you. Everything about him is so ordinary and predictable. Even I would have been able to tell about the secretary. I mean, seriously. He’s a walking cliché, Mr. Warrington. You aren’t. You’re different. Special. Quite extraordinary, really. And you are cherished. You have friends, you have family who love you. And I know for a fact that you care about them in return. Even your brother. A bit. Don’t let your arsehole of a cousin get to you, okay? He’s a bloody looser.”

John’s expression is one of genuine consternation mixed, however, with warmth and even affection. Sherlock swallows and has to look away.

“Thank you,” he manages.

John nods briskly to himself. “You’re welcome.”

Sherlock can’t be sure because of the darkness and the effects of the exercise, but he thinks John may be blushing.

They continue their walk in silence, passing a couple of dark houses half hidden behind a dense hedge. Sherlock isn’t quite sure if they’ve been here thirty years ago because he doesn’t remember them. The track then joins a larger road that comes up from the right, but ends after a couple of yards in a car-park from where another stony track leads on up the Down. Its white, chalky surface is easy to see in the moonlight. They follow it uphill, past the entrance to a chalk pit on the left, and an electrical substation fenced in like a high security prison, until the broader section of the path branches off to the right to dip down the slope towards a solitary farmstead, while the rest continues as a narrow, stony path into a patch of windswept forest further up the hill.

Sherlock halts briefly to orientate himself and to brush some sweaty strands of hair from his forehead. His heart is beating hard and fast, which is partly due to the bracing uphill walk – he’s a bit out of shape: the recent lack of cases meant no chases through London. _Perhaps,_ he thinks, _I should take up cycling, too._

Worse than the ascent is the sudden onslaught of memories. The sound of the road has been replaced by the rush of the wind in the nearby hawthorns. Crickets are chirping, and down on the farm, a dog is barking, followed by the bleating of sheep, visible as ghostly white shapes on the meadows surrounding the farm. Doubtless, they’re going to encounter more sheep on the Downs.

Affecting Sherlock even worse than the sounds are the various smells assaulting his nose: sun warmed turf and chalk, thyme and sheep, his own sweat and John’s. For a moment, Sherlock closes his eyes and just breathes, breathes. Oh, he has missed this. He hasn’t allowed himself to admit it until now, but these smells are linked to a sense of freedom and adventure he has been longing for for a long time, and only ever experienced in glimpses and brief, stolen moments afterwards. Freedom, adventure, and friendship. No wonder he felt drawn to John right from the beginning: his hair like sun bleached grass, his eyes like the butterflies on the Downs and the blue sky above them, his skin tanned in places indicating the exposure to sun, adventure, even danger. And the second time they met, he was even wearing this bloody Arran jumper, adding the scent of sheep wool to his very own. No wonder Sherlock was rendered powerless, given this deadly combination. No wonder he succumbed to John Watson’s charms right away.

Of course, it took him a while to understand what had happened to him on that fateful day in late January, six years ago. By the time he had understood and, moreover, sorted out his own feelings and desires (well, partly, at least, he isn’t quite through with the sorting yet), it was too late. John was married to someone else and on his way to becoming a father.

“Are you sure this is the right way?” he enquires now, tearing Sherlock out of his thoughts.

“What? Yes, of course it is,” he snaps testily, jolted back into the here and now. “It’s still a bit of a climb to the top of the Down.”

“Okay,” says John doubtfully, gazing up ahead to where the path vanishes in a dark patch of forest.

“And you’re sure she’s up there? I mean, it’s rather remote and all that.”

Sherlock nods. “I am sure. The remoteness of the location is rather the point, after all. We are not wasting precious time here, John, in case you’re worried about that. I don’t believe she is in any danger.”

“I’m not worried. I trust you. I know you sent your cousin away on a wild goose chase. I’d have wanted him out from under my feet, too. He really is an idiot. You know, even during our brief encounter, there were several instances when I really wanted to punch him. What a bloody wanker.”

He licks his lips again. Sherlock frowns, feeling a frisson of apprehension. Apparently more is weighing on John Watson’s mind.

Sherlock heaves a dramatic sigh, glaring at John.

“What is it now?” he asks. “What is bothering you, John? I need you to concentrate here, be alert. So spit it out before we move on.”

John scuffs a hand through his hair, only briefly glancing at Sherlock before ducking his head again. _More embarrassment. Brilliant._ Then, however, he visibly pulls himself together, jerking up his chin and facing Sherlock defiantly.

“It’s what you told your cousin.”

“Yes ...?” says Sherlock, drawing out the vowel. “We’ve just spoken about that, remember?” Even to his own ears he sounds irritable, being both impatient and reluctant to continue their hike, but preferring to get it over with. Apart from apprehension, curiosity is gnawing at him. It’s been so long ...

John’s head twitches in a shake. “Actually, no, we haven’t. Not about what I mean.”

Racking his brain about what else he told Daniel, Sherlock frowns. He was emotional then, appallingly so. He should have controlled himself better. Many words spilled out without thinking, meaning he can barely recall them. What on earth could John mean?

Luckily, John clarifies. “Is it true what you said about Janine?”

 _Oh, that._ Sherlock can’t help smiling, while at the same time feeling another frisson of apprehension, of a different kind now. Unbidden, the image of a dark greenhouse appears before his inner eye, accompanied by a feeling of being pinned under a magnifying glass. So that’s what’s been on John’s mind. In Sherlock’s own head, they’ve had this kind of conversation many times, and every one of them was awkward and highly uncomfortable. So now, finally, John has gathered enough courage to confront Sherlock about his romantic history in the real world? Interesting. Scary.

“What? That she made enough money with the stories she sold to the tabloids to buy the cottage in Sussex?”

John nods.

Sherlock laughs softly. “Yes, it’s true. I thought you knew that. She was recompensed well for the injustice I’d done her. I like to believe we’re even. Luckily, she seems to think so, too. Actually, we get along pretty well now.”

“You still maintain contact, then?” _Some sharpness in his voice. Is he jealous? Good._

“Yes. I contacted her about the hives.”

“Hives?”

“Bee hives. They came with the cottage and she planned to get rid of them. I implored her not to.”

“You did? Why?”

“Because bees are important and endangered, and moreover utterly fascinating. Also, I needed an excuse to contact her and learn more about her former employer.”

John thinks for a moment, again not meeting Sherlock’s gaze. “Those stories she told the papers ...,” he begins slowly.

Sherlock bursts out laughing, at which John looks almost cross. “You want to know whether they were true? Really, John?”

John swallows, squarely meeting Sherlock’s gaze. “Yes.”

Sherlock shakes his head. This is unexpectedly amusing. He recalls John’s reaction to finding Janine in his bedroom, wearing one of his shirts and not much else. He can only guess at John’s expression when she joined him in the bathroom. Clearly, he remembers John’s unveiled irritation, even anger when later she arranged herself on his lap, and even better, when he let her kiss him. Why was John angry? He was almost bursting with consternation. Why? He was recently married, just returned from his ‘sex-holiday’. Shouldn’t he be glad that his best friend had – how had he joked at the wedding? Pulled? But he wasn’t glad, not one bit. He displayed all the signs of a jilted lover. Jealous, possessive, clenching his fists and puffing out his chest as if he was spoiling for a fight. Sherlock has to admit that this was an unexpected but rather revealing side-effect of his fake relationship with Janine. But why would John be jealous? They’re just friends, after all. Unless ...

Cocking his head, Sherlock studies him. After a moment, John begins to shift uneasily under his gaze, but holds his ground. “What do _you_ think?” asks Sherlock, quite enjoying to see him squirm a little.

John sighs, suddenly weary. “Why can’t you just answer a damn question frankly for a change? You reveal so little about yourself, and know so much about me. It’s ... frustrating. I don’t have your deductive powers. I can’t read you like you read me.”

“Why does it interest you?”

“Because you’re my friend. And during all that time we’ve known each other, there’ve only been two instances when you’ve shown anything remotely like romantic interest in another human being. Irene Adler, and Janine, although the latter was only for a case, right?”

The question isn’t rhetorical, Sherlock realises. He bites his lip. John is right, he is secretive about his past, and guards his heart very, very cautiously because past experience has taught him to. But this is John. If anybody can be trusted with this, it’s him. Moreover, revealing some of his secrets might be a good bargaining chip to become privy to some of John’s.

Sherlock nods. “Yes, my ... entanglement with Janine was for the case only. I was never in love with her, nor otherwise attracted although I give her that she was interesting and intelligent and rather fun to have around (when she didn’t try to touch or kiss me), and I’m rather convinced she knew that things weren’t serious between us. I mean, she is experienced when it comes to relationships, and she is clever. She must have known right from the start that something was off.”

“You mean that you had to look up relationship things in a book?” There’s the hint of a cheeky grin in John’s eyes.

Sherlock smiles wryly in return. “I mostly consulted the internet, to be honest.”

John laughs softly. “So ... how far did you go? What kind of ‘advice’ did you have to get online?”

Sherlock shrugs, trying to keep a straight face. This is not quite as scary and embarrassing as he always thought. “Well, you did read the papers, John.”

John snorts. “Yeah. ‘Seven Times a Night at Baker Street.’ There were references to all kinds of kinky stuff. Did you really go into all that?” _Ah, apparently he’s read them very carefully._

“There’s a lot of advice online. Had to try it all, didn’t I, now that I had the opportunity.”

Sherlock holds his gaze before both of them burst out laughing. “Nothing happened, John,” Sherlock says when they have caught their breath again. “If you recall, you found me at the doss house after a night I should, as a good boyfriend, have spent with her.”

At this, John’s expression darkens. “Yes, I did. I take it you didn’t just spend one night there.” His voice and eyes are hard now, disapproving.

Sherlock casts down his eyes. “It was the only time I actually took anything, though. I swear, John. And it was for the case. I needed to be utterly convincing.”

“Bullshit, Sherlock.”

Sherlock exhales. John seems rather angry. The truth, then, or at least as much of it as he can divulge safely.

“All right, yes, I also needed a reason to be away from home because I didn’t want to spend the night with her. She’d increasingly hinted at wanting to have sex and I didn’t want that.”

“Oh, you’re a real gentleman, eh?”

“No, definitely not.”

“When did you do all that stuff, then? What the papers said?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “John, she made it up. All of it. I didn’t have sex with her, not once. I didn’t even return her kisses. Much.”

“She joined you in the bath.”

“No, she joined me in the bathroom.”

“Did she see you naked?”

“If she peeked round the curtain, then yes. So what? You’ve seen me naked, half of Harrow has seen me naked back when some boys in my houses decided to hide my clothes after football practise. Half the staff of Buckingham palace has seen me in only a sheet, and if the Queen looked at the security footage, so has she.”

“You played football?”

“When I couldn’t avoid it, yes. Actually, I wasn’t a bad keeper, although mostly I sat on the bench because the other boys didn’t want to let me play on their respective teams.”

John nods, obviously sorting this new bit of information into his mental image of Sherlock, before snapping back to their previous topic.

“So you didn’t have sex with her?”

Sherlock shakes his head. John really seems rather interested in and agitated about this subject. Sherlock still wonders why.

“As I told you years ago, women aren’t my area.”

John’s eyes narrow. “What about Irene Adler? She ... affected you. You can’t deny that. You wrote music for her and everything. Seemed a lot like your ‘area’ to me.”

Sherlock sighs. This is getting even more intimate than in the greenhouse. Will John ever let off? Apparently not. “She was interesting. A challenge. But I didn’t ... I wasn’t in love with her, if that’s what you’re driving at.”

“Did you sleep with her?” _Whoa, this is direct. Why is John so interested in my sex-life?_ Sherlock considers playing with him, teasing him with wrong information, but decides against it. One truth for another, that’s what he’s going to demand.

“Why would I have done that?”

“Because she was interesting, a challenge. And clearly interested in you, attracted to you, even. She tried to seduce you all the time. You can’t convince me you didn’t notice. And I know you still keep her phone – sentiment, is it? – and also that she isn’t dead.”

Sherlock smiles. Clever John.

“You’re right, she’s still alive. I rescued her when her life was threatened in Karachi. Not for sentimental reasons, mind, but merely practical ones. She’s very resourceful, maintains valuable connections, and even back then I feared I might need someone like her to help me against Moriarty. So I prevented her from being executed. Oh, and we did spend a turbulent night together. If you want to know – and I know you do –, she even saw me naked, too.”

John looks caught between morbid fascination and shock. Sherlock gives him a beady glance, then laughs. “Pull your mind out of the gutter, John. We didn’t have any sex. I don’t think she was ever attracted to me that way. After all, she prefers members of her own gender. Men are work for her, not romantic pursuits. Yes, she might have slept with me had I agreed to it, but merely to prove a point, not because she was in love with me, or she had suddenly decided men are her area after all. After all, people don’t do that. Fall in love with me.”

_Shit, where did this come from? It wasn’t supposed to come out. Say something else, quickly._

“Concerning that night, the truth is that I hadn’t thought to provide male clothing for her, which she needed, of course, to make her escape and get out of the city. Clever as she is, however, she found a solution. Somehow, she got hold of a gun, and then she helped herself to my attire.”

“You mean, she held you at gunpoint and told you to strip?” John wants to know, biting his lips to hide a grin. “Your underwear, too?”

Sherlock shrugs, grinning as well, recalling the event. “Yes, well, that was a little revenge of her own, I guess. It was a bit ... embarrassing. And cold.”

“Says the man who attended a meeting at Buckingham Palace dressed only in a sheet and apparently walked around his old school completely starkers.”

“Wrong. I wore my suit by the time the meeting commenced. You’re right about Harrow, though. I didn’t have a choice because all my clothes and my towel had been stolen.”

“Oh, pardon me.” John bows slightly, clearly amused, before turning thoughtful again. “So ... women really aren’t your area, are they?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I do keep telling you. Pay attention. You could just take my word for it. Now, can we go on or do you want to know any more juicy details about my romantic entanglements?” Shifting his jacket to his other arm, he begins to walk.

“Have there ever been any?” John’s voice sounds behind him. Sherlock sighs and waits for him to catch up.

“Romantic entanglements, or juicy details, John? Do clarify.”

“Either. Both.”

Suddenly, Sherlock feels a slight lump in his throat. Where has this come from? It’s not shameful to admit his lack of experience, is it? It shouldn’t be, in any case. And yet ...

He feels his shoulders slump as the tension he has borne throughout the conversation leaves him. Closing his eyes briefly, he turns to John, looking at him steadily. “No,” he says.

John’s gaze is hard to read. Is it relief? Pity? Something else entirely. Sherlock won’t even try and unravel it. John licks his lips. “Why?” he asks quietly.

Sherlock huffs out a brief laugh, hard and bitter. What is he supposed to answer to that? _Because I’m not interested in that kind of thing? Because I’m afraid that sentiment will compromise my mental faculties? Because I don’t trust anybody enough to bare myself so completely as to be intimate with them? Because my libido is mostly controlled by my intellect, subdued by it, even? Because I’m not interested in sex for the sake of it, and what intimacy I crave only works under the condition of love, and the one person I love doesn’t return the feeling in the same intensity? Because you don’t want me like that, and I don’t want anybody else, have never wanted anybody else?_

He swallows and shrugs. “The work,” he offers, as if that were explanation enough.

John looks at him for a long time. “Always?” he then asks. His voice is gentle and almost cautious, as if he were talking to a frightened animal.

Sherlock shrugs again. He is weary of a sudden. This kind of talk is exhausting. This soul-baring, it’s hard work. But John is relentless. And perhaps it’s good that this finally happens. Perhaps they should have had this conversation a long time ago. Before Moriarty, before the Fall. Before Mary and Magnussen. Before everything went south.

“Have you ever been in love, Sherlock?” John asks, his voice tentative.

Sherlock draws a deep breath and releases it slowly, gazing ahead at the dark ridge of the Down. “Yes,” he says quietly.

“What happened?”

He turns to John. “Nothing. It wasn’t mutual. They liked me, I think. As a friend. That was it. Nothing more.”

“They?”

Another deep breath. “He.”

John nods. He doesn’t seem surprised. “So you’re ... gay?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Maybe. I don’t know. Frankly, I have no idea what I am, how to label myself. I don’t believe it’s important, either. I am who I am. Do you have a label for your sexuality?”

John looks a little startled at the repartee, but rallies quickly. “I ...,” he licks his lips again, obviously considering to stall and reiterate his usual saying. But then he raises his eyes to Sherlock’s, and nodding briefly to himself, he says, ”To be perfectly honest, I don’t know, either. I mean, I’m not gay. I like women and I’m attracted to them. Mostly.”

“But?”

A long exhale. “But ... there have been times ...”

“Major Sholto?”

John looks alarmed for a second, but then nods. “Yes. Nothing happened,” he adds quickly. “I mean, how could it? He was my commanding officer and all that.”

“But?”

John sighs. “But there was something between us. Both of us felt it, I think. I’m pretty sure he was in love with me. And I was flattered, hugely so. I mean, he was a man I greatly admired. And had our situation been different, who knows what might have happened. I ... certainly felt attracted to him, and not just emotionally, if you take my meaning. But nothing ever came of it, and I think it was for the best.”

“Did he know? About the way you felt, I mean?”

John makes an undefined gesture. “I’m not sure. We never spoke about it. Course we didn’t. Blokes don’t do that kind of thing, do they? Talking. I mean ...” He makes a vague, rather helpless gesture to indicate the two of them. Sherlock nods. Neither of them is good at this.

“And then I got shot and sent home, and he was involved in that ugly business with the recruits, and we lost touch, and ... I was quite surprised when he actually showed up at my wedding. But I could tell he wasn’t happy – I mean of course he wasn’t, having been stabbed and everything. But I think he was sad having to watch me marry someone else.”

Sherlock has to avert his gaze. _Ah yes, that does hurt. You’re quite right there, John._

Turning back to John who is watching him with a strange, thoughtful expression, “Have there been others?” asks Sherlock. “Other men you were attracted to?”

John holds his gaze for a moment before dropping his eyes. He swallows and nods. “Yes. But nothing serious, mostly. Fooling around at Uni, that kind of thing. The odd bit of drunk snogging and groping at a party. Girls were always easier, although I was rarely in love with them.”

Even though the statement about John’s bisexuality doesn’t surprise Sherlock as he surmised something along the lines long ago, basically ever since their first not-date at Angelo’s, having John spell it out does hurt a little. It hurts because it shows one thing: John has been attracted to men. So gender isn’t the discriminating factor. It’s Sherlock. He simply isn’t attracted to Sherlock. In a way, Sherlock has always known that, too. Of course John wouldn’t be attracted to him, not in a romantic sense. People simply aren’t. He isn’t loveable.

John’s next words make him look up sharply. “Come to think of it, I’ve only had two committed relationships in my life.”

 _Oh, this is getting interesting now and potentially even more painful now. He’s already had a relationship with a man._ Sherlock can’t help a deep sense of apprehension, even dread mounting. He has to ask.

“Mary and ...?”

John gazes at him, long and steady, and suddenly a smile crinkles the corners of his eyes. “And you. Surely you know that.”

Sherlock didn’t. He’d hoped, perhaps. Truth to tell, John had even mentioned his affection for Sherlock when he asked him to be his best man. Platonic affection, for sure, friendship, but that’s all right. Sherlock will take what he can get. And yet, like on that fateful day, Sherlock feels utterly surprised, even a little shocked. He knows that he is important to John. By now, after everything they’ve been through, this much seems clear. But other than that, he’s no clear idea what John really feels.

“Me?”

“Of course you, you idiot. We may not be sleeping together and all that, but ... I mean.” He laughs. “We might as well be married.” Then his expression darkens. “But of course we aren’t. You’re married to your work already, and aren’t interested in that kind of thing with people, are you? A romantic relationship. I’m just a convenient flatmate and sometimes protector and fetch-and-carry person.”

Sherlock shakes his head quickly, and on a sudden impulse, reaches out to touch John’s shoulder. It seems important to do so, to somehow feel connected to him. Also, John looks really dejected right now. _Re_ jected _._

“You’re much more than that, John, don’t you know that?”

John shrugs. “Why did you tell the Warringtons we were just work partners and flatmates? I’d say we’re more than that. But correct me if I’m mistaken.”

“I ...,” Sherlock lets out a deep breath. “I don’t know what we are, John. I just told you that I have no experience with relationships, platonic, romantic or sexual or ... however you’d like to define them. I never even expected to have friends. So I’m ill equipped to label whatever exists between us. I only know that you are the most important person in the world for me, and that I want you to stay at Baker Street and share the work and ... well, everything, really.”

There’s a twinkle in John’s eyes. “Everything?” He seems surprised, and genuinely happy. Sherlock’s heart soars.

Nevertheless, he ducks his head, embarrassment vying with delight. Has he said too much? Was this too personal? Could it be interpreted the wrong – or indeed the right – way?

He clears his throat and clarifies, “Well, rent, living space, certain appliances, bank account, food. Clothes, too, if necessary, although I’d draw the line at underwear apart from socks. You have these good woollen ones (Merino?) that are much warmer than mine – not that one needs them often in the English winter – and—”

“Sherlock.”

“What?”

“You’re babbling.”

“Oh.”

John smiles at him, gently and sincerly. “I’ll gladly share with you whatever you’re willing to give, okay? But yeah, perhaps we should indeed draw the line at underwear. Some of your pants must be twenty or more years old. They still have your name written in them.”

Sherlock blushes. “They had to be marked for the laundry at school, and later Uni. And they’re still functional. It’s not that I’ve had reason to buy new and fancy underwear for a prospective partner, not even Janine. My old pants fit in nicely with the story I told her about not having been in a relationship for a long time and being dreadfully out of practice. Best way to make her pity me and try and cure my loneliness and implied sexual frustration.”

“Oh, so you’re sexually frustrated, eh?” quips John.

Sherlock snorts. “Not as much as you,” he challenges.

“Oi,” complains John. “Not good, Sherlock. Really.”

“But it’s true. The time you normally spend in the shower, particularly in the mornings, has increased exponentially these past few months, indicatin—”

John holds up a hand, clearly embarrassed.

“Okay, okay. Some of us have ... needs, right. Would you prefer I looked elsewhere for ... relief?”

“No,” Sherlock shoots back immediately. _Too fast? John_ frowns. _Too fast. Shit._ He must sound like a possessive lover to John. Which he isn’t. Well, at least when it comes to the lover part. Sadly.

“How do you know about how long I spend in the shower, anyway? Do you sit on your bed with a stopwatch and a spreadsheet?”

That’s scarily close to the truth. Now it’s Sherlock’s turn to blush. He hopes the darkness will conceal it.

“I do pay attention to things. It’s my job. And sometimes I need the bathroom as well, you know. Toilet and ... things.”

John shoots him an arch glance, but then chuckles softly. “Sometimes, I forget that you are human like the rest of us. You can hide it so well.” Sherlock isn’t sure whether that’s a compliment or a criticism.

John cocks his head as he studies him. “Do you ever ...?” He makes a motion that is explanation enough.

“As we’ve just established, I _am_ human, John. Sometimes, my body reacts accordingly. It’s annoying and mostly unwelcome, but there seems to be no way of avoiding it altogether.”

“How very unfortunate for you. You don’t enjoy it? Taking … um … care of the situation, I mean.”

“What, cold showers? Thinking of my brother?”

John looks horrified. “God, no. Don’t you ever ... indulge?”

“Rarely. It’s tedious, seldom pleasurable. That’s why I don’t imagine it to be different if another person is involved, you see. If anything, it gets even messier, and you have to take their preferences into account. I don’t understand why people even bother.”

John is looking at him with a strange, unreadable expression.

“Because they enjoy it. It _is_ different with another person, you know. More intense, maybe, because there’s an element of surprise to it. And it feels good to see to their needs, too. Makes you feel connected. It’s another form of intimacy.”

“Compromised by sentiment, I’d call it,” scoffs Sherlock, although John’s words have made him curious. He’s not considered these aspects. Also, engaging in anything intimate doesn’t sound that scary when he imagines the other person to be John.

“Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Oh, don’t be like that. I know you do feel. You can be incredibly sentimental, you know. The things you said during your Best Man speech ... I mean. Jesus, they made me cry.”

“Sorry.”

“No, no, it was ... good crying. You were so very open and honest. It was ... good.”

Sherlock is at a loss for a witty reply. Here he is standing with his hand still resting lightly on John’s shoulder. John doesn’t seem to mind. Neither does Sherlock.

Again, John is gazing at him with a strange but undoubtedly fond expression. “People really are idiots,” he says softly. Sherlock feels inclined to agree, even if he is not entirely sure what instance of idiocy John is referring to. He watches how John’s hand twitches. He half lifts it, hesitates. For a moment, it almost looks as if he intends to touch Sherlock’s cheek, but then he drops it again.

The moment passes. Drawing a deep breath, Sherlock removes his hand from his shoulder, too, and looks up at the sky. “We better continue, as long as we have the moon as illumination. Clouds are moving up from the South-West.”

John nods, clearing his throat, obviously relieved about the change of subject. “All right, let’s go.”

 

**– <o>–**

 

Their path narrows considerably soon after the crossroads, and becomes steep and rocky in places. It’s slippery, too, the flints smooth beneath Sherlock’s expensive shoes. He secretly wishes he had thought of bringing more appropriate footwear. John seems to be faring better with his brown brogues. They have better grip, their rubber soles thick and profiled, unlike Sherlock’s smooth leather soles. He considers taking off his shoes and walking barefoot like he did as a child. For a moment, he thinks he can feel short, sun-warmed turf under his soles and between his toes. He shakes himself slightly. Better keep the shoes on for now. Sometimes, the flints can be sharp, after all.

Ascending the tunnel-like track through a patch of forest with trees twisted and shaped by the wind, they reach a small plateau where a path branches off to the left. Rugged hills are visible, like spoil heaps from a quarry. They are overgrown with turf and small hawthorns, and criss-crossed by chalky paths like white scars. One of them climbs a steep slope and vanishes from view at the top. To Sherlock’s surprise, this area looks almost exactly like it did when he was last here, climbing up from the other side where the land falls steeply towards another bit of the forest. He breathes deeply, considering one of the sheep-tracks for their continuing ascent, but deciding to stick to the main path instead. It’s less steep.

They continue to climb, both of them paying close attention to signs of movement and sounds in the hedges to both sides of the path. The gnarly trees have been replaced by juniper and barberry between clumps of hawthorn, bits of fleece hanging in the branches like shreds of fog or white clouds.

“This is a strange place,” murmurs John. “Do you know anything about it?”

“Yes,” agrees Sherlock, and tells him about the hill fort and the dew pond.

As usual, John is interested and asks several informed questions. “You’ve been here before, I take it?”

Sherlock nods. “It’s where I went when I managed to escape my cousins. We haven’t reached the best bit yet.” _Or what remains of it,_ his thoughts supply unhelpfully. He is not sure he wants to see, but knows that he must.

They continue in silence. After a while, the ground levels and the trees and bushes recede. Ahead, Sherlock sees a fence. The large gate has been replaced by a cattle grid, but there’s a small gate to the side for walkers. To the left, the ground rises to what looks like turfy walls crowned with bushes. In front of the dyke a wooden post with a map or information table has been erected.

“Is that the pond you mentioned?” John wants to know. He walks over to have a look at the table, but the moonlight isn’t bright enough to actually read the letters. Sherlock follows him reluctantly when John climbs the dyke to have a look at the pond.

Even though the bushes surrounding it have grown, the pond itself hasn’t changed much. The reeds grow in different places now and the water level is a little higher. Sherlock wonders if the newt is still here, or rather its offspring many generations removed. How long do newts live, anyway, if they are lucky to live out their lives until they die naturally? He should look it up.

John has walked down to the water, his dark form a stark contrast to the silvery surface of the pond. Suddenly, he hunkers down and begins to study the ground close to the water carefully.

“Sherlock, I think I’ve found some footprints here,” he calls, his voice strangely hushed as if he’s reluctant to speak out more loudly and disturb the eerie tranquillity of the place.

Startled out of his memories, Sherlock quickly joins him at the water’s edge. Using his mobile’s torch, he illuminates the ground. John is right. He can see several different marks. Hiking shoes and trainers, and even a pair of cleated cycling shoes _(mountain bike, new)._ All to be expected, and all several days old, the edges of the imprints dry and crumbling. Far fresher, however, and all the more interesting is a pair of footprints of what look like bare feet, small and slim: a child’s traces.

“Tiffany’s?” asks John, snapping a photo with his phone.

“The size looks about right,” Sherlock replies thoughtfully. They could be hers, unless ... He shakes himself slightly. _That’s not possible,_ he tells himself sternly. _Stick to facts, for God’s sake. That’s your job. Fancies and fantasies will get you nowhere._

“Are they the same footprints you saw on the mat at the Warringtons’ house?” enquires John.

Sherlock nods thoughtfully. “The marks on the mat were very faint, but they are about the same size.”

“Could be the strange boy, then, too. The one Ellie saw.”

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow.

“What?” asks John. “What is it?”

“I thought you might have worked it out on your own by now.”

“Worked out what?”

“The solution of this case. Tiffany, the abduction, the strange barefooted boy, the sticker letters.”

“I ...,” John looks endearingly confused, scrunching up his face. “I have a theory. It’s probably wrong, but ...”

“Out with it. You know I value your input.”

“Yeah, because I make you look smarter when I sprout theories that turn out to be completely off the mark.”

Sherlock smirks. “Precisely.”

John cuffs his shoulder amicably. “Arse. Why don’t you explain things to me?”

“In a short while. We haven’t reached our final destination yet. Come on, John. It’s not far now.”

With that, he pockets his phone again and climbs the bank to return to the gate. Crossing the cattle grid carefully, he turns left immediately to ascend the slope to where the old concrete marker can be seen, standing dark and forbidding like some border-stone one passes at one’s peril. There, he waits for John to catch up.

“Wow, this is quite ... spectacular,” John remarks once he has arrived and stands next to Sherlock, gazing at the silver-and-black hued landscape extending in all directions. The moonlight is still strong enough to cast a silvery glow over the fields and meadows in the valley, as well as the turfy ridge extending eastward. Hedges and clumps of forest show dark and solid, with soft silvery patches between where grassy areas are. Down in the valleys to both sides, lights are twinkling in outlying farms and villages, and two lines of lights, yellow and red, indicate the course of the A24. Far overhead, a plane can be seen descending in the direction of Gatwick Airport, and on the northern horizon, the orange glow of light pollution marks Greater London.

Sherlock’s gaze, however, is drawn eastward. It is with some trepidation that he lets his eyes follow the grassy ridge of the Down, and he can’t help a low gasp escaping him when he sees Chanctonbury Ring. He must have swayed, even, because suddenly, he feels a warm hand in his back between his shoulder blades, steadying him.

“Sherlock, you okay?” John sounds concerned.

Sherlock swallows, managing a small nod. John steps closer, his hand still in his back, firm and warm and comforting, anchoring Sherlock to the present.

“The trees,” he whisphers.

“Er ... what trees? Do you mean the small grove ahead?”

Sherlock swallows again, fighting down images from the past that wash up with the force of a tidal wave. Suddenly, he has difficulty focusing his eyes, and when he reaches up to scuff at them, he feels wetness. This is ... unexpected. And yet perhaps not, given that the last time he was here, the same eyes witnessed utter destruction.

“What about the trees?” John’s voice is very gentle. He is also quite close now, close enough for Sherlock to smell him and feel the warmth exuding from his body.

“They were gone,” whispers Sherlock hoarsely. “Most of them were gone when I was here last. But now ....” He turns to John. “Look at them, John. They are back. They are growing again. Somebody must have replanted them. Look how tall they are already. Twenty-nine years ... I didn’t know ... I didn’t know that. I thought they’d be gone forever.”

John looks at the tree-henge and frowns, before gazing back at Sherlock. “What’s so important about the trees? Why were they gone?”

“The 1987 storm felled most of them. I was here shortly after. It was ... horrible, John. I still have nightmares about it.”

He must sound like an utter lunatic, he knows. John promptly voices his confusion. “Didn’t know you cared so much about trees,” he states carefully.

“I cared about _these_ trees,” returns Sherlock fiercely. “Deeply.”

John licks his lips. “Because you were happy here once?”

Sherlock stares at him. _Good deduction, John._ “Yes,” he says softly. ‘You can always find me among the trees.’ He hasn’t forgotten these words, spoken long ago in a strange language. Perhaps ... now that the trees are back ...

At his side, John nods. “How about we go and have a closer look, then. I’m really curious now.”

Sherlock draws a deep breath. “So am I.”

“Will you tell me what happened here?”

Sherlock hesitates. He hasn’t spoken about it for a long time, and only ever mentioned an edited version to Mycroft, and some parts to his parents – which he shouldn’t have. Their reaction was precisely the one he feared and had wanted to avoid. But John ... he can trust John. He won’t criticise him or regard him oddly as if he were the very freak everybody else has been trying so hard to convince Sherlock he is.

“In time, yes,” he promises. “But for now, there’s a case we need to solve.”

“You think Tiffany is held in that grove? Doesn’t seem like a very secure spot. I mean, the forest isn’t even very dense. And ... wait a moment. Have you seen that? Between the trees, a little to the left. It looked like a light. Not from a house or car down in the valley. It was colder, more ... blueish in colour.”

“Mobile phone torch. I saw it, too. Let’s go, John. I think we’ve just seen sign of our kidnapper.”

Next to him, John smiles grimly. The hand in Sherlock’s back gives a brief rub before he drops it. “Shouldn’t we head down there, away from the top, and proceed closer to these bushes. If we continue along this ridge, we’ll be in plain sight.”

“Good idea,” agrees Sherlock. “Come on.”

 

**– <o>–**

_July 1987_

The boy is taller and stronger in build than Sherlock, but that is no great feat, small and skinny as Sherlock is. He has blue eyes and sun-bleached, somewhat tousled hair that sticks up oddly, as if he hasn’t washed it for a while and ran his fingers through it, or else smeared some kind of hair-gel into it. His arms, legs and feet are bare like Sherlock’s, and his skin is tanned as if he’s spent most of the summer walking around barefoot and short-sleeved. His clothes are ... strange. His t-shirt is too large for him and looks almost like a tunic. It’s so wide that the boy is wearing a leather belt on top of it with a pouch strapped to it. The tunic is a bit dirty, too, and seems to be made of something other than cotton. Wool? Linen? Sherlock wishes he knew more about fibres, and decides to learn about them once he is back home with his chemistry set. The boy’s trousers look a bit like jeans, but they, too, seem to be old and well-worn, and to have been made for a taller and broader person. Likely, Sherlock thinks, he has older siblings and is wearing their clothes. Sometimes he, too, wears old things of Mycroft’s. Normally, he doesn’t mind. He hates shopping for clothes, and thinks it’s quite sensible to use old clothes when they are still good, even if they were worn by his brother. After all, they were washed afterwards, hopefully.

The boy is watching Sherlock with a curious expression, obviously studying him like Sherlock has studied him, and making deductions about him. Sherlock wonders what he sees, and hopes he won’t be put off getting to know him like so many people seem to be because off his odd face and strange eyes. The boy doesn’t seem to mind, which endears him to Sherlock. He is still holding out the shaped flint Sherlock left under the tree.

Gingerly, Sherlock takes it from his hand. “Thank you.”

The boy nods, as if to say Sherlock is welcome, and smiles.

Sherlock studies him. “Can you understand me?” There is something odd about the boy. _He might be foreign,_ Sherlock thinks. He doesn’t look like the other children in the village, nor like those Sherlock goes to school with. Perhaps he is one of the traveller families his uncle has complained about. He looks a bit ... wild. It’s not the best term to describe him, but Sherlock can’t think of a better one for now. ‘Untamed’ might be a better word, though. A bit dangerous, too. Like someone who doesn’t go to bed at eight, and who doesn’t necessarily do his homework, preferring to learn other, more important things outside. He looks like someone who can climb trees – as he has proved already –, who knows where to find wild berries, and read animal tracks, and doesn’t care whether his clothes, hands and feet get dirty while roaming the forest.

 _No,_ Sherlock decides, _Uncle Richard wouldn’t like this strange boy at all, wherever he is from._ Sherlock decides he likes him immediately because of that. He seems to be an outsider, an outcast like himself.

Following Sherlock’s question, the boy tilts his head, as if thinking. Then he nods slowly, but waves his hand in a vague gesture.

“You understand a little?” Sherlock enquires. Another nod, firmer this time. “Can you speak English?”

The boy listens again, then shakes his head. Sherlock bites his lower lip. “Tu parles Français?” he asks. His French isn’t very good yet, only based on what he has picked up during holidays in France. When he’s back home, he needs to find some books to further educate himself and improve his command of the language.

The boy shakes his head. Sherlock thinks for a moment, studying him and trying to determine what country he might hail from.

“Er ... sprechen Sie ... no ... sprichst Du deutsch?” he asks haltingly. The boy hesitates again. Sherlock thinks that for a moment, something like recognition sparked in his eyes. But then the boy shakes his head again. Sherlock sighs. He is running out of languages.

The boy tilts his head to the side. He says something in a language Sherlock has never heard before. It sounds ... old, somehow. Some words are even faintly familiar, in an odd, subconscious way Sherlock can’t explain. The language sounds like the land under his feet feels, the words like the very bones of language the same way the flint fossils buried in the chalk are the bones of this land. Sherlock feels a shiver run down his spine. Perhaps, he thinks, this is Irish, and the boy is one of the Irish Travellers. It could be Irish. Or some Scandinavian language, in the way some of the words are familiar.

Sherlock smiles, too. This is brilliant. They’ll find a way to communicate, he is sure. But first: introductions. That’s the polite thing to do, isn’t it? Pointing at himself, “I am Sherlock,” he says.

“Sherlock,” repeats the boy. He pronounces it funnily. Sherlock laughs and corrects him. The boy gets it right on his second attempt. Sherlock points at him.

“What’s your name?”

The boy says something long and complicated. Sherlock tries to repeat it, but gets it wrong. The boy says it again, patiently. Sherlock prides himself on being rather good with languages, but this strange tongue defeats him. He growls softly, disappointed in himself. “Can I call you by some nickname that’s not so complicated, or something?” he asks, feeling a little embarrassed at his failure to reproduce the long name faithfully. “It’s just, I seem to be too stupid to pronounce your name correctly. Sorry about that.” It galls him to admit this.

The boy listens, smiles faintly, then offers, “Jan,” he says.

Sherlock smiles. “That I can do, Jan. Pleased to meet you.”

“Sherlock,” says Jan, and laughs. Sherlock laughs as well.

“How did you manage to climb up that tree?” he asks, pointing at the tall beech with its smooth trunk that only branches off a considerable height above the ground. He makes a climbing motion, then shrugs and looks at Jan questioningly. The boy grins at him and flaps his arms as if flying.

Sherlock laughs. “Oh yeah, right. You flew, yes, of course. I totally believe you.”

Jan shrugs. For a moment, neither seems to know what to say next with communication this basic, then Jan half turns and points towards the sheep that are grazing on the sunny turf outside the tree-henge.

“Sheep,” says Sherlock.

Jan repeats it, then says the word in his language. He points at the sheep and then at himself, shielding his eyes and making a watching motion.

“Oh,” says Sherlock. “Are they yours?” Jan tilts his head, apparently not understanding. Sherlock tries again. “You ... look after them?” He points at his eyes, then at the sheep.

Jan nods and grins. Then he motions for Sherlock to follow him. “You want me to come with you? Okay, sure. Let me just get my stuff.” Quickly, he stuffs his flint back into his pack and ties it together again. Jan looks on with interest.

“What?” he asks, pointing at the toilet paper.

Sherlock frowns. He must know toilet paper, right? Everybody knows that. But Jan touches it reverently and with the kind of wonder Sherlock recognises from himself whenever he finds new and fascinating things. “That’s toilet paper,” he explains. “You use it after ... you know ... you’ve been to the toilet."

Jan looks at him questiongly. His cheeks burning, Sherlock squats down as if relieving himself, and then mimics wiping his backside with the paper. Jan giggles, and touches the paper again. “What on earth do you use?” Sherlock wants to know. “Leaves? Moss?” He points at these things, and Jan nods.

“That’s ... odd. I bet the paper is much nicer. You ... er ... can have it, if you want. I can always get more.” He hands the roll to Jan who takes it gingerly and not without awe. He makes a motion to return it to Sherlock who waves his hands. “No, keep it, keep it. I have plenty.”

Jan smiles and takes the roll. Taking off his belt, he threads the leather string through the hole of the roll before fastening the belt again. Sherlock looks on approvingly. That’s a brilliant idea for carrying it. He wishes he’d have thought of it.

Rummaging in the pouch on his belt, Jan produces a small flint. It’s round and a little domed, and shows five rows of white dots spreading out from the top. He offers it to Sherlock, who takes it gingerly.

“For me?” Jan nods.

Sherlock beams. “Thank you. That’s a fossilised sea-urchin. I’d been hoping to find one here.”

Jan giggles at the word, and says something in his own language. A sheep bleats in the distance. Jan’s head jerks up and he listens closely. Motioning again for Sherlock to follow him, he sets out through the trees towards the southern edge of the grove where the main flock is grazing.

Sherlock is amazed how quickly the other manages to run on his bare feet. But if he has been doing that all summer, probably his feet already have thick natural soles, like Hobbit feet. Sherlock vows to grow such soles himself now, and to walk barefoot whenever he can.

When they have reached the edge of the forest, Jan halts. Screening his eyes with his hand, he scans the grazing sheep. Sherlock thinks he might be counting them. Bleating sounds again. One of the ewes is calling for a lamb. An answering call, higher in pitch – that must be the lamb –, but it’s far away. Jan stands tense and alert, listening closely.

Suddenly, he gives a sharp whistle that almost sounds like the cry of a bird of prey, and dashes off across the short turf, down the long, gentle slope to where the strange, round water tank stands which Sherlock spotted from afar a while ago.

“Hey, what’s the matter?” Sherlock calls after him, “Is anything wrong with the lamb?” He begins to run, too, tearing after Jan. To his surprise and delight, he soon finds he is not alone. From a thicket to the right where apparently it rounded up some stray sheep, a grey streak shoots towards him, yapping happily. At first, Sherlock believes it’s a wolf. It does look rather wild and feral. But then he sees the collar of rope tied round its neck.

Jan whistles again, and the dog rounds Sherlock and dashes towards its master. All three join up near a patch of damaged fence close to the water tank, which close-up doesn’t look that interesting after all: just a large, somewhat rusty tank with a bit of graffiti on the sides, and a shallow depression in the ground at one end where apparently water has been let out for the animals.

Jan and his dog are more interested in a patch of dense hawthorn close to the damaged patch of the fence. Here, a lamb has tried to squeeze through the hole and got stuck, twisting itself unfortunately in barbed wire in its struggle to get free again. The wire is wrapped round one of its legs and has torn into the skin there.

It bleats feebly and tries to struggle to his feet when Jan approaches. He signs to the dog who moves to his side, so as not to spook the lamb further. Jan pats the dog and mutters something to it, at which it dashes off again towards the flock. The lamb calms down a little.

Cautiously, Jan approaches the lamb. It begins to struggle again. “Sherlock,” calls Jan, giving him a quick glance over his shoulder and motioning for him to come closer. He points towards the lamb’s head. Sherlock nods. Stepping closer carefully, he kneels down and reaches out to hold the animal’s head and shoulders down, while Jan begins to deftly free the trapped leg of the barbed wire. The lamb bleats mournfully, as if it’s about to die any moment. In the distance, its mother can be heard answering.

“Is it bad?” asks Sherlock, pointing at the bleeding leg while stroking the lamb’s neck with his other hand. He’s fascinated by how fatty it feels under his hands. No wonder sheep can stay outside all year, even in winter, with their coats repelling water naturally.

Jan shakes his head. He searches his pouch and withdraws a small pot. Using some of the sheets of toilet paper from his belt, he dabs away the blood, before smearing some sharp-smelling ointment from the pot onto the wound. Then he signs to Sherlock to release the lamb and steps back himself. The animal struggles to its feet, and although it favours the injured leg, it quickly hobbles off to where its mother is calling for it.

“Will it be okay?” enquires Sherlock, watching it limp across the turf.

Jan thinks for a moment and nods. He then launches into what seems to be an explanation in his own language. Sherlock doesn’t understand a lot, but the gist appears to be that sometimes, lambs just die, which is sad, but can’t be helped, but also that sometimes they recover from injuries much worse than this one. Sherlock nods as he listens, trying to make out patterns in the language or recognise particular words. He thinks there are several for ‘sheep’, and also picks up terms for summer and winter.

Together, they repair the fence by tying together the torn ends of the barbed wire, before returning to the flock. The dog joins them, yapping happily and prodding Jan’s hand until he strokes its nose.

Sherlock watches it with a stab of grief and longing. Jan seems to notice his sad expression, before he points at Sherlock and motions for him to come and pet the dog. Sherlock does so, swallowing around a lump in his throat. He hasn’t petted any dog since Redbeard died. This one here feels different. It’s taller and its coat feels coarser. Even though it seems tame and docile now, to Sherlock it still looks feral and dangerous. No wonder the sheep are afraid of it. Still, it licks Sherlock’s hand and he sniffs.

He becomes aware of Jan watching him curiously. He says a strange word which appears to be the dog’s name. Then he points at the sky and makes a jagged motion.

“Lightning?” aks Sherlock. “Is that its name?” He makes a growling sound like thunder and then the same zig-zag motion. “Lightning.”

Jan nods. “You ... dog?” he then asks. Sherlock casts down his eyes, rubbing Lightning’s ears.

“Yes, I had one. Redbeard. He was brilliant. He was my best friend. My only friend, really. We did everything together, you know. But he got ill and they had to put him down. At least that’s what they said,” he adds bitterly. “I still think they could have saved him. They should have tried harder. They didn’t try at all, just put him to sleep.”

He kicks at a tussock of grass, swallowing. His eyes have begun to sting and he scuffs at them angrily. It doesn’t help that Lightning has begun to lick his other hand.

“Sorry,” he mutters hoarsely, not looking at Jan. “It ... I just miss him, okay?”

A hand appears on his shoulder, squeezing it gently and disappearing almost immediately. “Friend,” Jan suggests, pointing at Lightning, and then at Sherlock and himself. Sherlock sniffs and beams at him. “Really? But he is yours. I mean, you need him to look after the sheep.”

Jan nods, but then makes a motion that encompasses the three of them. “You mean we could look after the sheep together, all three of us? Oh ... oh, that would be brilliant. Mind, I don’t know a lot about them. You’ll have to teach me, and perhaps I can find some books about them and read up a little. How long will you be here? All summer?”

Jan nods. Sherlock is delighted. Suddenly, the two weeks at his cousins’ house seem far too short. “I’ll try and come every day,” he promises excitedly. “I’ll find some kind of excuse.”

Jan smiles at him. A little further up the slope, the injured lamb has been reunited with its mother and is bumping its head against her udder to drink. Sherlock watches with fascination.

“Doesn’t it hurt the ewe?” he asks. Jan shakes his head and launches into a long explanation in his language. Sherlock listens carefully, and while he doesn’t really understand the words, he thinks that once again, he understands what Jan is trying to communicate.

 

**– <o>–**

 

In this fashion, they spend the rest of the afternoon. Jan seems happy to have an appreciative audience. Sherlock has the impression that he was feeling lonely, too – as lonely as one can feel with a splendid dog like Lightning at his side. Jan explains many things about his sheep and the whistled commands to Lightning. He also seems to know a lot about the local plants and their properties. To Sherlock’s delight, he has found a patch where some late wild strawberries grow, and they spend some time there threading the berries onto long stems of grass to take with them to their chosen lookout point at the southern edge of the ring of trees from where there’s a good view over the flock and the approaches to both sides.

Twice, other people can be seem walking along the path that runs along the top of the ridge. Every time, Jan vanishes into the forest with Sherlock following, and they hide up a tree and watch the hikers explore the site and then move away again while the boys sit in the branches suppressing giggles. Sherlock imagines he is Robin of Sherwood – now with a proper Little John at his side – hiding in the Greenwood to waylay the minions of the Sheriff of Nottingham. Jan is very skilled at mimicking various bird calls, which cause some irration in the couple of elderly walkers as they discuss whether they’ve just heard an early nightingale or a robin.

When the sun begins to dip down towards the north-western horizon and the shadows between the trees begin to lengthen, Sherlock consults his watch.

“It’s long past supper-time already,” he sighs. “I don’t want to, but I think I’ll better head off now. Or else I’ll be grounded. Likely I’ll be grounded anyway, for slipping off like this. But I’ll try and come tomorrow, I promise. Will you be here? I’ll bring some food and drink, then. The strawberries were nice, but I’m really thirsty now.”

He stands, brushing grass and Lightning’s hairs off his trousers from where the dog has rested his head in his lap. Waving to Jan, who raises his hand in farewell, rather reluctantly Sherlock turns his back onto the ring of trees and begins the journey back to Washington. This time, he decides not to take the route through the forest but to follow the main path as it winds down the slope. He wants to see whereabouts in Washington it ends up, so that he can find it again tomorrow.

Dusk has already settled in the valley by the time he reaches the main road. Bats are fluttering overhead. With each step away from the Downs, Sherlock’s heart grows heavier. It’s not just that he had to leave his strange and utterly fascinating new friends behind, but also a sense of impending doom is settling on him. He’s been away for hours. Surely his absence will have been noticed. He needs an explanation, a good alibi. Something that isn’t suspicious.

“You, boy, come here for a moment.”

Sherlock has approached his aunt and uncle’s house from the back, the way he escaped. He’s just passed the hedge of the neighbouring house that belongs to Ellie Cushiel who, according to everybody in the Warrington household is a bit crazy and really odd. Sherlock has always been curious as to whether it’s true. He’s only been to her house once to fetch something, and found it fascinating, particularly her stuffed dog. Now, Ellie, wearing a turqouise dressing gown over what looks like her pyjamas, her feet in slippers and her aubergine-dyed hair in curlers under the hood of the gown, is peeking at him through the small gate in her hedge.

Sherlock stops and turns to her. “Hello Ms. Cushiel,” he says cautiously.

“Ah, is that little Sherlock? Hello.”

“Yes,” he replies a little stiffly, wondering what she wants.

“I was wondering if you could help me for a moment. There’s a lightbulb needs changing in my kitchen, and I’m not good with heights so I can’t climb on the ladder.”

“Okay. But I really have to hurry back then.”

She gives him a shrewed glance. “Of course. They’ll be wondering where you spent all afternoon. Had a good day out on the Downs, had you?”

Quickly, Sherlock steps through the gate into her overgrown but strangely fascinating back garden with its stalky perennials and old apple trees. “How do you know where I was?” he asks, lowering his voice.

“It’s plain to see, isn’t it? Chalk on your feet, grass stains on your trousers, and a bit of strawberry, too, when you rubbed your hands clean after eating them. One just has to look closely.”

Sherlock gazes up at her smiling face and begins to grin. She isn’t as crazy as people believe, he understands. In fact she’s quite observant and intelligent. She just pretends to be round the bend so that people leave her in peace. He decides he likes her. “Yes, I can help you with the lightbulb,” he declares. “Only ... if my aunt and uncle or my cousins ask, could you not tell them where I’ve been, please? They’ll be angry, anyway, and I want to avoid being grounded for the rest of my stay here, and, what would be terrible, having to spend all day with Daniel and Christopher and their idiot friends. To be honest, I doubt I’d survive that.”

“Ah yes, I saw your rather daring escape from the bathroom earlier,” she nods sympathetically. “They’re giving you a hard time again, aren’t they, those boys?”

Sherlock nods, hanging his head, kicking at a small green apple lying in the grass. “They hate me.”

“Because you’re not like them. People hate what they don’t understand.”

Sherlock looks up at her and wonders how she fared at school, whether she was bullied there, too. “Tomorrow is Daniel’s birthday, too. That’s going to be a nightmare.”

Ellie nods thoughtfully, opening the back door for Sherlock to step into her dark kitchen. “The ladder is in the pantry over there, and the new bulb is on the counter. Tell you what, Sherlock. You can tell your aunt and uncle and whoever else asks you that you spent the afternoon here, helping me round the house. Which is partly true, after all. And tell them also that I have plenty more tasks for you tomorrow and the following days. The lawn needs mowing, my vegetable patch needs weeding, and I’ve some errands for you to run. You can also walk the dog, if you like. The sooner you’re done, the sooner you can abscond to the Downs. How does that sound?”

Sherlock is delighted. This is actually a brilliant solution. He doesn’t mind a bit of work when that means that he can escape the Warringtons, and, more importantly, the birthday party tomorrow. “That’s brilliant,” he announces as he drags the foldable ladder under the lamp. “I hope the others will agree.”

“Oh, leave that to me,” says Ellie mysteriously. “I’ll call Mabel and let her know. Don’t you worry. You can take the scones I made for tomorrow.”

 

**– <o>–**

 

Soon after, carrying a covered plate with scones (and nicking two which he stuffs into his small pack), Sherlock slips out of Ellie’s front door and walks the short distance to the Warrintgons’ house. As suspected, a reception committee has already gathered in the hall. Daniel stands there, with Christopher behind him and Tom next to him ( _God, no, don’t tell me the moron is actually staying here over night, too,_ thinks Sherlock with a sinking feeling).

“Well, well, Freak. And where have you been all day?”

“Afternoon and evening,” Sherlock corrects him. “I was here all morning, if you remember.”

Daniel takes an intimidating step towards him, drawing himself up menacingly. “Shut up. We looked for you everywhere.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes as he gazes up at the taller boy defiantly. “Yeah, I bet. But, stupid as you are, you didn’t look closely. I was at Ellie’s all the time.”

“Fuck off, you weren’t. We looked in her garden.”

“I was in the house, watching telly and helping her in the kitchen.” That last bit, at least, is true.

The boys exchange a doubtful glance. “Gosh, if you spent all day at her house, you’re even more mental than I thought,” opines Tom. “I mean, she’s crazy, right? You said she was crazy, Dan.”

“Yeah, she is. Talks to her dead dog and everything. But hey, guess little Freak here feels right at home there.”

“Indeed I do. I’ll go over there tomorrow as well.”

This announcement elicits some interesting reactions. Christopher looks simply pleased that he won’t have to bother with dragging Sherlock around with them all day. Daniel seems to think that, too, before realising that with Sherlock out of the way, they won’t have a scapegoat should anything go wrong, and moreover won’t have an easy target. Tom is even more devious. “Well, if he wants to go there so badly, we should make sure it doesn’t happen, right? Can’t let the Freak have all the fun, can we?”

“You boys, do stop calling Sherlock that,” comes Aunt Mabel’s voice down the corridor. She arrives, wiping her hands on a towel. Sherlock frowns at her. As much as he appreciates her taking his side for once, he is sure that when he’s not around, she also calls him names. “Oh, there you are, Sherlock. We were getting worried.”

The boys exchange a glance.

“Ellie just phoned. She said you helped her a lot today and asked if you could come in tomorrow as well. I told her I wasn’t sure because of the birthday ...”

“I can go if she needs my help again,” says Sherlock quickly. “Here are the scones she made.” He holds out the plate.

“Ah, yes, thank you. Well, in that case ... Have you eaten anything?”

“A bit.”

Aunt Mabel looks at him with a hint of pity. “Mostly sweets, I bet. Ellie isn’t exactly known for providing a healthy diet, although her scones are really good. Come into the kitchen. I’ll make you a sandwich. And you’ll have some of the salad, too. You need the vitamins.”

The three other boys snicker. They loathe greens of any kind with a burning passion which has caused a lot of discussion at the table. Sherlock doesn’t mind eating salad and vegetables. Even though he has the reputation of being a picky eater, that’s not true, strictly speaking. He just doesn’t eat a lot, often forgets to when he has other things on his mind, or simply can’t be bothered. But when he does eat, he isn’t picky and actually enjoys most things, even salad and olives and spinach and shellfish.

“See you later,” Tom whispers ominously as the three boys withdraw up the stairs.

Aunt Mabel gives them a warning glance.

Sitting at the kitchen table with a bowl of salad, a large glass of milk in front of him and a sandwich in hand, Sherlock spends the next fifteen minutes being talked to by his aunt who complains about Ellie not informing her sooner about Sherlock staying with her, and about a number of other things. After about two minutes, Sherlock stops listening, and instead imagines himself back on the Downs. He thinks about Jan and how miraculous it is that suddenly, he has a friend. A friend and a dog and lots of sheep, and two more weeks to look forward to.

“You best go to bed right away,” Aunt Mabel says. “After a good wash, of course. The boys will stay up to watch a video film. _Star Wars,_ or something. Or _Star Trek?_ I really can’t tell them apart. It might be a bit too exciting for you”

Sherlock nods. “I’m really tired,” he says, which is only partly true. He longs to withdraw to the solitude of his room and lock the door behind him. Enduring two more hours of hateful company while being bored by a film doesn’t sound like a good way to spend the evening.

Therefore, he absconds to his room as soon as he can, and only when he hears the footsteps of Tom and his cousins as they head for the living room downstairs, does he slip into the bathroom where he unpacks his makeshift bag again, washes and brushes his teeth, and drinks some more water from the tap.

Back in his room, he packs some more things into his rucksack: his Swiss Army knife, more toilet paper (Jan seemed to like it), some first aid utensils in case another sheep gets hurt, some spare underwear, a jumper just in case, and a foldable rain-jacket. On top, he puts the scones which he wraps into tissues. He’ll get some bottles of juice or lemonade tomorrow, and also some more food, if not here then from Ellie.

Rucksack packed, he then changes into his pyjamas and looks through the books on the shelves, many of which seems to have been either Aunt Mabel’s or Uncle Richard’s, trying to find something about sheep or the history of the Downs. He doesn’t find anything of interest apart from a book on Dutch Old Masters, which he takes to bed with him. Some of the images are curious, and others downright scary with lots of blood and chopped off heads, and people getting dragged to hell and devoured by demons.

Soon, however, Sherlock’s eyelids begin to droop, and he falls asleep. He dreams about the ring of trees, and Robin Hood, and Lightning the dog talking to him from where he stands, stuffed, in Ellie’s living room.

 

**– <o>–**

 

Waking early the next morning, Sherlock hurries in the bathroom and then creeps downstairs. Aunt Mabel is already up and preparing breakfast. Next to the table, a heap of presents are waiting for Daniel. Sherlock adds the one his parents have left with him. It’s a book and some kind of box that rattles when shaken. Sherlock surmises that it might be a repair kit for bicycles. Well, Daniel certainly needs one, as often as his bike gets damaged. Sadly, Sherlock’s parents seem to have overlooked to present him with some brains to actually operate the kit, Sherlock thinks scornfully. But who needs brains and skills when one’s parents do everything for them?

“Good morning, Sherlock,” Aunt Mabel greets him. “Up early, I see. You can help me lay the table.”

Sherlock does so, since he wants to stay in her good books to ensure he’ll be allowed to spend the day elsewhere. Soon, loud noises from upstairs can be heard and Daniel, his brother and Tom rush down the stairs, followed by a chipper-looking Uncle Richard who apparently has taken the day off work.

There’s some hugging and congratulating Daniel (Sherlock manages to avoid having to hug him, and their handshake is very brief with minimal touching), then Daniel tears into his presents, while Christopher, more practically minded, stealthily helps himself to an early slice of cake while the others are fawning about the gifts. Sherlock wolfs down two sandwiches and half a pint of milk before he wipes his mouth with his arm and announces he’s off to Ellie’s. This elicits a nod from Aunt Mabel, a frown from his uncle and a shrewd look from Christopher – Daniel and Tom are too engrossed in a large parcel containing more loopings for his Carrera track – and then Sherlock is dashing upstairs to fetch his rucksack, and two minutes later is out of the house.

Ellie already awaits him. Her television is silent for a change, but the radio in the kitchen is on. Sherlock listens to the weather forecast which promises sunshine and dry weather at least until the weekend, and smiles. This sounds promising.

He does spend the morning helping Ellie round her back garden, mowing the lawn with her ancient mower, and even cutting some of the longer grasses in the back with a real scythe that makes him feel very grown-up because it’s so sharp. Then he weeds a bit in the vegetable patch, listening to her babble about the various plants he encounters while she stands in the back door sipping tea. When the sun gets too hot, he withdraws into the house and helps her peel potatoes for lunch – or rather, he peels, she talks. She seems to enjoy talking to him. _Perhaps,_ he thinks, _she likes that I’m a real person for a change and not just a stuffed dog._

He feels a little sorry for her then, imagining what it must be like for her all on her own, only with her new dog, Mr. T – who’s quite lazy and not very communicative – for company. She doesn’t seem to have a husband or children or any friends living close by, although he’s seen a large stack of letters and postcards from all over the world that speak of a lively correspondence with people abroad. She is strange, though, prattling about this and that, but likable, and she actually seems to know a lot of things. About potatoes, for example. And different kinds of apple and their particular properties for cooking, baking, storing and making cider. On a whim, he asks her about the ring of trees up on the Down.

At this, she smiles mysteriously. “Oh, that, it’s a special place, isn’t it? People say it was settled thousands of years ago.” She goes on telling him about the Bronze and Iron Age people who lived there, and the Neolithic farmers before them. Sherlock proudly shows her his flint tool, and she agrees that it might be genuine, not just a funnily shaped stone.

He then enquires about sheep. Unsurprisingly, she knows about them, too. _She seems to have swallowed an encyclopedia,_ Sherlock thinks. _Perhaps that’s because she watches so much telly._ She tells him about the Southdown Sheep and how they are different from other breeds.

“Yesterday, up on the Down, I met a shepherd who was still just a boy, a little older than me,” says Sherlock, sniffing a little because he is cutting up onions.

Ellie looks up at this. “Oh? Might be one of local farmers’ lads.”

Sherlock shakes his head, wiping at his streaming eyes. “No, I think he is foreign. He barely speaks our language. He didn’t know toilet paper, either.”

“Didn’t he now?” muses Ellie, her eyes twinkling. “And I’d guess you’re eager to meet him again, aren’t you?”

Sherlock nods, taking the proffered handkerchief to blow his nose.

Ellie smiles. “Off you go, then. You’ve earned your keep for today. Take some of the biscuits from the pantry, and some more scones to add to the ones you nicked yesterday, and some bottles of juice, too. I’m sure your friend will like them. Don’t come back too late. Off now, before your cousin’s guests arrive.”

Sherlock grins at her, quickly washes his hands and wipes them on his jeans, before fetching food and drink.

“Same time tomorrow,” Ellie reminds him.

“Yes, ’bye.” With a wave, he slips out of the back door and dashes across the grass towards the gate in the hedge. It’s almost noon and the sun is hot. When he reaches the point where the path he came down the previous evening branches off the road, he takes a quick glance back at the sleepy village, then with a whoop, the dashes off into the forest.

 

**– <o>–**

 

When he has reached the dew pond, he begins to look out for Jan. Worry is gnawing at him now. What if he isn’t there? Well, his sheep are, but surely there are others looking after them. Ellie said that mostly, they graze on the Downs without actual shepherds minding them because their grazing grounds are fenced in, but Sherlock thinks it’s important that now and again, somebody is around. Otherwise, the poor lamb might have died the previous day.

A group of hikers is milling around Chanctonbury Ring. They have spread out blankets between the trees and are preparing to picnic. Sherlock loathes them immediately. He can neither see nor hear a sign of Jan or Lightning, and no wonder. Jan doesn’t seem to like strangers, particularly near his sheep, unless for the purpose of teasing them. Disappointment grows in Sherlock. He has been looking forward to spending more time with Jan and his dog, and now they’re not here, or hiding somewhere. Why can’t these hikers just piss off? They don’t belong here.

Sherlock hesitates, feeling no desire to go near the trees, but at the same time he doesn’t want to leave. Eventually, he sits down next to a gnarled hawthorn not far from the marker stone. Then he hears a soft whistle. It sounds like a bird, albeit one he doesn’t recognise. But only just. Something is odd about the call. He has an inkling who the whistler might be and his heart lifts.

Standing again and looking around, he sees nothing at first. But as he focuses on the bushes on the other side of the South Downs Way, he sees that one, and only one of them, sways rather suspiciously. He whistles back, wishing he had agreed on a secret call with Jan the previous day. They absolutely have to do that now. The call is answered by another strange warble.

Smiling and picking up his things, Sherlock dashes across the path and dives into the bushes. And right enough, there is Jan, which Lightning sitting next to him, keeping an eye on the sheep from between the branches.

“Hello,” says Sherlock. “I feared you wouldn’t be here today.”

Jan shrugs and points towards the hikers occupying their tree fort. Sherlock sighs and nods. “Yeah, I’ve seen them. Idiots. I wish they were gone. Perhaps we can try and scare them away later. But for now,” he begins to unpack his rucksack, “look, I’ve brought us some food and drink. Don’t know if you like any of this stuff, but ... well, just try it.”

Jan seems hungry, and after the first bite into his scone, Sherlock notices how hungry he is, too. Jan tries everything offered and seems to enjoy it. The glass bottle fascinates him. Once he has emptied it, he holds it up to the light and watches the sunlight reflect in it. Once again, Sherlock wonders where he is from that he doesn’t know ordinary things like bottles and toilet-paper.

They don’t talk much, mainly because Jan doesn’t speak a lot of English, although he seems to understand most of what Sherlock says. In turn, he communicates through signs and the odd word in his strange language which more often than not, Sherlock understands because it sounds familiar somehow. All in all, they get along splendidly.

After their meal, they pack their things and while Lightning dashes off to round up some sheep that have strayed near the lower end of the grasslands again and are milling about near the barbed wire fence, the two boys creep into the ring of trees out of the hikers’ sight. Then they begin to rustle branches and make weird noises to scare them, and it works. Jan is brilliant at this sort of them, slipping through the forest unseen, climbing trees, and making uncanny, frightening sounds that could be just the wind howling in the branches, or some terrifying creature come to devour the hapless wanderers. Sherlock tries his best to keep up with his friend, and soon, their plan shows success.

Whatever the hikers think is hiding in the trees, they begin to look around anxiously. One of the children present wants to go and investigate and is promptly called back. Not long after, the group packs up and leaves. And even better, on their way down, they meet another small group of walkers who they inform, in hushed voices, that they believe a ferocious dog is running loose between the trees and has been howling quite threateningly. As if on cue, Lightning streaks past, albeit at a distance, and all of them shudder and quickly head towards the lower gate near the water tank. Soon, they are out of sight. Sherlock only hopes that they won’t tell any of the farmers about loose dogs, or else they could get into trouble. Blessedly, for the rest of the afternoon, nobody else shows up.

Sherlock and Jan spend the time looking after the sheep with Jan showing off proudly what Lightning can do, and how cleverly and quickly he responds to calls and commands. They also build a small hideout in the middle of the tree-henge where the trees are densest and there is a bit of undergrowth. As on the previous day, when the shadows lengthen between the trees and the sun dips towards the north-western horizon, Sherlock feels reluctant to leave. But Jan assures him he will be there the next day, and so Sherlock says goodbye, and walks back to Ellie’s.

She is excited to hear his report, and he gives her a short account. “He seems a good shepherd, your friend,” she says after he’s enthused about sheep specific information he has picked up from Jan. “You have learned a lot already.”

Sherlock beams and nods, but he also catches a strange, thoughtful expression on her face, just for a moment before it’s gone. He wonders about it. He wonders if Ellie knows something about Jan he doesn’t.

Soon, he has to leave her place, too. When he arrives back at the Warringtons, his uncle is in the process of loading his car with a gaggle of boys to drive them home. Sherlock quickly slips into the house to avoid them seeing him. In the deserted kitchen, he helps himself to some leftover dinner, before disappearing into his room, thinking that if the remainder of his stay in Washington passes like this, he won’t complain.

 

**– <o>–**

 

Miraculously, it does. Apart from one day when a heavy thunderstorm arrives shortly after noon just when he is about to leave Ellie’s, which confines him to her house for another two hours and makes his stay on the Downs a little wet and uncomfortable, and another when his aunt and uncle insist on him accompanying them to Worthing to go shopping and have a dip in the sea, he remains virtually invisible at the Warrington house.

To his surprise, his cousins make no real attempts to torpedo his freedom. Apparently his aunt has convinced them that he is a better slave at ‘Crazy Ellie’s’ place, and that he works there all day. He, in turn, makes sure to yawn and moan when he slinks down the stairs for breakfast, and when he returns from her place in the evening, pretending to have worked all day.

He does look the part, too, for people who care to pay attention to these details. His pale skin has acquired a freckly tan. His nose and the back of his neck are even slightly burned when he forgot to apply suncream one day. He has gained some muscle, too, mostly from working at Ellie’s, but also from running around so much, uphill, downhill, after the sheep, playfully chasing Lightning or be chased by him. His fingers are rough and callused, and the soles of his feet are thick enough now so that he can walk all the way from the Warringtons’ house to the Downs and back barefoot without being bothered too much by hot asphalt or the odd sharp flint.

The hours he spends roaming the Downs, mostly with Jan and his dog but sometimes on his own when Jan hasn’t arrived yet or is elsewhere – he never says where he goes then, but Sherlock notices that he rarely shows up when strangers are about near the tree-henge or the pond. Sherlock has asked him twice where he lives, but each time Jan has only made a vague motion over the Downs which seems to imply that he is local. He certainly knows his way around, knows places to find good flints to make tools and arrow-heads. He knows which wood to use for what, be it bow or arrow-shaft, walking stick, flute or basket. He knows which plants are poisonous and which ones are edible, or whether they have any healing properties. He can tell what the weather’s going to be like by looking at the clouds and feeling the wind. To Sherlock’s amazement, he correctly forecast the thunderstorm by studying his sheep’s behaviour. And he knows a lot about sheep – as he should as a shepherd. Sherlock wonders if that is indeed his profession. After all, he is still a child. Maybe he is just jobbing for the holidays. When Sherlock asks after his school, though, he only gets a vague answer. He concludes that Jan may be home-schooled, and that his parents don’t speak English. That would explain the fact that he can’t read, only the odd word that he seems to recognise by its shape. He can do maths, though, and seems pretty good at them. Sherlock tries to teach him chess on his little portable set, and he picks it up quickly. Sherlock learns Jan has an elder brother who seems to be a bit of an idiot, which makes him even more sympathetic in Sherlock’s eyes.

Despite his oddness – or perhaps because of it, Sherlock loves him dearly. He’s never had a friend like Jan. He is what Mycroft could have been had he not become a boring adult prematurely. Jan is like an older brother, someone who looks after Sherlock and teases him amicably (he loves to hide and for Sherlock to try and find him when he arrives in the early afternoons), and who teaches him stuff. Sherlock wishes the summer could last forever. With Jan and Lightning keeping him company, he isn’t bothered by his cousins. He hasn’t even thought about Redbeard for a while. Only occasionally he gets a little sad, but then Lightning comes and licks his ear or places his head in Sherlock’s lap to be petted before he dashes off again, and Sherlock, who once vowed to never love another dog again, finds himself utterly hooked.

He still fears his cousins, though, and goes to great lengths to hide his true destination every time he sets out from Ellie’s in the afternoons. Mostly, that’s around lunchtime when he can be sure that Daniel and Christopher and whoever is around for the day are inside eating. He chooses different routes to climb up to the Downs, and on those two times one of his cousins sees him leave Ellie’s house, she tells them that she’s sending Sherlock to run errands for her, always to people the boys consider horrible.

Despite taunting him when they see Sherlock, and not sparing with their usual insults when their parents aren’t around, because Sherlock makes sure to pretend to be utterly miserable every time he has to go to Ellie’s, none of them suspects him of having the time of his life.

Even the mornings he comes to appreciate. Ellie knows things. She knows a lot, and not just from watching telly. When Sherlock helps her sort through the clothes in her wardrobe one day, he sees that she has lots and lots of books in her bedroom and the spare room next to it, which is almost like a small library. He finds books about local customs and legends there, about flora and fauna, but also books about old languages, and lots and lots of old adventure novels. Ellie doesn’t mind when he reads them during his breaks, of which there are many. She seems to prefer just talking to him, anyway, instead of insisting of him to work, telling him about this and that. Slowly, he gains glimpses into her life, which was mostly spent abroad in a number of countries because her parents were travelling lecturers. She herself studied in the United States, France and Sweden, and worked in a number of countries organising events of some kind. Sherlock isn’t sure what exactly she studied. Several things, he assumes, given her broad knowledge of ... basically everything. Something to do with literature seems to be the best bet. Sherlock wonders how she makes a living now, because she doesn’t seem to go anywhere and spends most of her time in and around her house. She doesn’t own a car, either. She’s not quite old enough to the retired. Eventually, he simply asks her.

She laughs at this. “Oh, I do work. Come on, I’ll show you.”

Sherlock noticed the old typewriter in her library, and also that it showed signs of frequent use. “I work here. Mostly at night, though, when I can’t sleep and there’s only crap on the telly. I write articles for newspapers and magazines, and sometimes I edit essays and even novels. The odd play or screenplay, too. But mostly, I answer people’s letters in the ‘agony columns’ in some of the papers. You know, when people write in with their troubles. I give them advice when I can, or sometimes a verbal slap round the ears when they’ve been idiots. Some of them resent that, but in most cases, it’s exactly what they need. Some of them continue to write to me even afterwards, and we stay in touch, and they send me things out of gratitude. With some, I have been writing for years and years. I know their entire life-stories.”

Sherlock nods as he gazes at the typewriter and the stacks of letters and magazines next to it. “Why can’t they solve their own problems?” he asks. “I mean, don’t they know them better than you, with them being their problems?”

Ellie shrugs. “I guess sometimes, it needs another person to see more clearly. Someone who can read between the lines, so to speak. Someone who takes time to observe and consider all the details, and then find a solution to the problem. You can’t do that if you’re too far involved, you know. When it’s too personal. That’s why so many of them find it easier to write to a stranger.”

She cocks her head and looks at him strangely. “I can see that you, too, like to help people. And you’d be good at it.”

Sherlock snorts. “Often when I try to help them, they don’t want that. And others are so stupid, I don’t want to help them. If they’d just think, they wouldn’t be in trouble. Why should we help those idiots?”

“Because they’re the ones who need the most aid, even though they won’t ever admit it. Ah well, I think it’s almost noon. You’ll want to be off to meet your friend.”

Sherlock nods. In three days, his parents are going to return. He already dreads having to leave. He never thought he’d say that about Washington.

“You can always come back and stay here, you know,” says Ellie. “In case you don’t want to stay at your cousins’. You’re a great help round the house.” She grins at him, her eyes twinkling.

“Thank you. And ’til tomorrow. Can I take some apples, too, please?”

“Oh yes, help yourself. You’ve been mostly living on sweets and pastries these past days, haven’t you? Yes, take the apples, and a peach for each of you, too,” she adds, and as usual when she refers to Jan, for a brief moment Sherlock sees that odd, thoughtful expression.

 

**– <o>–**

 

On the last full day of his stay, Ellie releases him early so that he can spend as much time as possible with Jan. His friend seems to feel that something is going on, because he nods at Sherlock’s glum face when they are seated in the shady sanctuary of their little forest hut eating the fruit.

“Sad?” he asks.

Sherlock sighs and nods. “Yes. I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“Because my parents are coming back and we’re going home. And then we’ll be going to Germany because Mummy has a conference there. And then the holidays are over and school starts again.”

Suddenly, there’s a large lump in Sherlock’s throat. He looks up at Jan’s face. “I wish I could stay here. I don’t know when I can come back. Perhaps in the autumn. Don’t think I’ll manage to come earlier, unless I run away from home. My parents know I hate spending time with my cousins. But it’s Christopher’s birthday in November. So perhaps I can talk them into bringing me here. Or I’ll just run away and become a shepherd like you. I’ve learned so much. I don’t need boring school anyway.”

Jan shakes his head disapprovingly.

Sherlock frowns. “Oh, it’s easy to talk for you. You don’t have to go to school, do you? Ah well, let’s not argue. I ...,” he swallows, “I’ve brought some things for you. The chess-set. You can keep it, if you want. Teach your brother, maybe.”

Jan nods and takes the small set gingerly. He looks rather touched. “I’ve also made a drawing of you and me and Lightning, and the sheep and the trees,” says Sherlock, feeling a bit bashful. He draws quite well, but not as well as he’d like. But Jan’s eyes are shining as he looks at the picture, and then he smiles warmly at Sherlock.

“Thank you,” he says.

“You’re welcome,” says Sherlock. Jan has learned to speak English quite well, and Sherlock has picked up some of his language so that they can communicate almost fluently now. “I wish I could write to you, but I can’t really send letters to this place, can I?”

“No need for letters,” says Jan. “Be here always. You come back, find me under trees.”

“I will, I promise.”

The exchange a firm handshake, then Jan fishes something out of his pouch and hands it to Sherlock. It’s a piece of wood carved quite skilfully in the shape of a leaping dog. The wood is grey like the bark of the beech trees, and like Lightning’s coarse coat.

“For me?” asks Sherlock. “Wow, thank you. Did you make it?”

Jan nods.

“It’s beautiful.”

“You remember,” says Jan.

“I’ll always remember,” promises Sherlock.

 

**– <o>–**

 

The sun has already gone down when Sherlock and Jan part near the marker stone. For a moment, they stand side by side looking towards Chanctonbury Ring, their figures casting long shadows on the turf. Sherlock’s heart is heavy, he doesn’t want to leave this magical place. There doesn’t seem to be anything left to say to Jan, either, so they stand in silence, just looking. The wind picks up at some point, turning the leaves on the beech trees and fanning over the short grass. Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply, trying to convey the past two weeks to a place in his memory where they will never be extinguished.

When he opens his eyes again, he is alone. It doesn’t surprise him. Jan has vanished, as he so often did, softly like the wind in the grass. Sherlock sighs, and without looking back, begins the lonely descent back to Washington.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has two illustrations:


	5. The Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again thank you to all who left kudos or commented, or remarked on the artworks on tumblr. Your feedback is much appreciated. Also appreciated, as always, is rifleman_s' brilliant beta work. Thank you.
> 
> This chapter ends with a small cliffhanger. I hope to get the final chapter done shortly, to then return to finishing [_Enigma_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1991325/chapters/4313418). But, well, one never knows what RL has in store ...

_July 2016_

Skirting a line of bushes near the northern edge of the ridge where it begins to fall steeply, Sherlock and John quietly make their way toward Chanctonbury Ring. The blueish glow of the mobile phone is gone, but Sherlock has memorised where he’s last seen it.

Now that the initial shock at returning to the tree-henge has faded, he is increasingly curious of what the place looks like now from up close. Who replanted the trees? Local people? Or some organisation such as the National Trust? Surely, the place has tourist and archaeological value. Actually, archaeologists must have welcomed the destruction, because the lack of trees enabled them to excavate what must have been off limits before. He is tempted to look it up online, and is slightly annoyed at himself that he didn’t think about doing so earlier on their drive here. He should have anticipated his return to this magical place. As if he could have stayed away ...

Next to him, John is walking with an alert, concentrated expression. Sherlock assumes he is mulling over what he has just learned while still keeping an eye on their surroundings. Always the soldier, John. He tries to not think about what John has told him during their ascent. It needs quiet contemplation and his complete attention. Right now, the case must have precedence.

“What are we going to do now?” asks John quietly when they have reached the northern border of the grove. Here, the dyke is low and almost invisible. Amidst a mass of younger trees, Sherlock sees that some of the original beeches have survived the storm, more, in fact, than he remembers. His heart lifts at the sight. He wonders if his tree-seat is still there. The damage caused by the storm is still visible, but only to those who knew what the Ring looked like before. It’s thinned out now and no longer presents the domed shape it used to have thirty years ago. But many of the trees are still impressive to look at, particularly the beeches along its southern border where most of the old trees have survived. Now standing more solitary than before, their elegant, wind-shaped forms are beautiful in the moonlight. _Things grow, and heal,_ thinks Sherlock, casting a glance towards John, to find him gazing at Sherlock in expectation of an answer.

“Let’s venture a little deeper into the forest. There used to be a bit of a dip in the middle of the henge. When I was here as a child, we built a little hut out of branches there.”

“Okay,” agrees John. “You’re sure she isn’t in any danger, right?”

“Yes. Well, apart from tripping over a root in the dark—” He breaks off, stops, and stands listening intently for a moment. Ever since they crossed the dyke, the feeling of being watched has intensified. Sherlock can tell from John’s stance that he has been alerted to some presence, too. Sherlock touches his arm briefly to hold his progress. They both stand listening, and then Sherlock smiles.

“Tripping, or falling out of a tree. Isn’t that so, Tiffany?” he calls out, looking into the gloom under the trees and focusing on one of the surviving beeches, the branches of which rustled suspiciously a moment ago.

Immediately, the tree stands silent but for the wind sighing in its branches. “Got you,” whispers Sherlock, smiling to himself. Motioning to John, he signs for him to approach one side of the tree, while he takes the other.

“Up there?” asks John, frowning up into the dark, rustling leaves.

“Yes.”

“Alone?”

“That remains to be seen.” Oh, and isn’t he curious about that.

Once they have taken up position to both sides of the smooth trunk, Sherlock shines the torch of his mobile phone into the fluttering leaves. Briefly, the light catches on a pair of bare feet, before they vanish upwards.

“Tiffany, we are not going to harm you. We won’t even bring you back to your parents right away if you don’t want us to. They worry, though, as surely you are aware. But that was your intention all along, wasn’t it? Anyway, there is bad weather moving in. I would assume you have noticed. Sitting in a tree in the middle of a thunderstorm, with a mobile phone in your pocket and a metal flask in your bag is not a very good idea, as I’m sure you’ll agree. We just want to talk to you.”

Silence reigns above.

“Be sensible, Tiffany,” adds John, following Sherlock’s lead. “Please. We’re not the police.”

More silence.

John sighs. “Want me to climb up and fetch her?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Wait. Tiffany,” he then calls into the tree again, “I doubt you’ll get into (much) trouble for this. Your parents will be relieved and happy when you return to them unharmed. As you can see, they followed your abductor’s instructions. They didn’t involve the police. They did, however, ask family for help. My name is Sherlock Holmes. I am your father’s cousin. I doubt he ever mentioned me. Prior to today, we hadn’t seen each other for many years, and even as children we didn’t get along. This should show you how much you mean to him. He overcame his pride and contacted his freak of a cousin to try and find you. I’m a consulting detective, and my friend and partner John here is a doctor. So don’t be miffed that we found you so quickly. We’re good at that, finding things, and people, too, although I have to say your ... kidnapper appears to be a clever person. The sticker letters were ingenious, although the wording did give away their true age. And the cut off hair was a brilliant trick. It really scared your parents. Makes sense to wear one’s hair short in summer, doesn’t it? And also, one doesn’t really need much else for a disguise. Different clothes, different hair, perhaps a pair of glasses, and you’re a different person. Smart, very smart. Switching off all internet and mobile carrier functions on your mobile as well as GPS was clever, too. Most people don’t know that their devices are being tracked by the providers of mobile services, not just the GPS function on their phones. Would you like to know what gave your location away? The drawings in your room and your chalky footsteps. Also, there was a witness, Ellie Cushiel, who saw your abductor when he delivered the second message. I bet old Ellie knows even more about the whole venture than she let on. You’ve spent rather a lot of time with her lately, haven’t you? You first came to read her books – and doesn’t she have brilliant ones? I’d know, you see. As a child, I spent a lot of time at her place, too, likely doing precisely what you have: helping her around the house and garden and listening to her stories. You enjoyed doing her Sudokus, and she provided you with food and drink and the occasional ice-lolly. Does she still bake those scrumptious scones? I reckon Ellie was in on the plan, at least to some extent. She does that. Helps children who need help. She covered for me when I didn’t want to spend time with my cousins but rather up here, on the Downs. Yes, I know this place, know it very well, even though I haven’t been here for almost three decades. That’s why I knew exactly where to look for you.”

The tree is still silent, but it’s the silence of someone listening closely. Sherlock smirks to himself. “Now, you may be wondering if Ellie betrayed you. She didn’t. She only reported what she saw from her window. I doubt you told her about your entire plan.”

“She ‘abducted’ herself, didn’t she?” John puts in.

Sherlock smiles and nods. “Of course. Isn’t that so, Tiffany?”

A faint rustle from above, as of someone shifting on a branch.

“Why?” asks John, half towards the tree and half towards Sherlock.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Sherlock returns. Then, again addressing the strange occupant of the tree, he says, “You’re an exceptionally clever and observant girl, Tiffany. You see things others don’t, and you pick up small clues and construct a narrative out of them. Obviously that’s a trait that runs in the family. A trait we share. It may have skipped some generations, but it certainly resurfaced in you. Now, what did you pick up? Your father staying away from home for longer than his official working hours? The occasional text message he wouldn’t read in front of your mother? His second, ‘work’ phone he didn’t just use for work? A hint of perfume your mother doesn’t use? Or lipstick behind his ear, again a different colour than your mum’s make-up? In all likelihood, in the last year or so he also started to wear his hair differently and work out more at the gym. He began to run and cycle more in his free time, resulting in less time for you, which you resented. Perhaps he didn’t wear his wedding ring on some occasions when he forgot to put it on again after meeting with his lover. Yes, that’s what you deduced from all those small clues: your father is having an affair. You mother found out, confronted him about it. They tried to keep you from noticing when they fell out, but being as observant as you are, and very attuned to changes in atmosphere and behaviour of those surrounding you, of course you picked it up. Then there was your mother’s strange, secretive behaviour after her trip to Ibiza. The photos she wouldn’t show you. The very fact she went with her friends to stay away for an entire week when before they’d only been away for short weekend trips. You weren’t happy about it, had been looking forward to some family time instead. So not just your dad is having an affair, but your mum is apparently looking elsewhere for love as well. Love, or at least sex. Or both. Now, it’s not difficult to imagine the future for your family. Both parents are dissatisfied in their relationship, there’s danger they are going to split up. And the danger _is_ there, make no mistake. You’re too much of a realist to not have seen and feared this. Because if they split up, what will happen to you? You love both of them. You don’t want to be forced to take sides. Your home has always been your haven because you feel you don’t really belong anywhere else. Not at school, not even with your close friends sometimes because you’re different, and you feel that even though they like you and enjoy spending time with you, they don’t really know or understand you. And sometimes, you just need time on your own. You can be yourself at home, with your books and your pictures and your pillow fort, and yes, also with your parents, who support you and, despite their faults, love you unconditionally. But now that safety blanket is about to be torn in two, and you are caught right in the middle, and you don’t know what to do – unless it be to remind your parents of their priorities. And their main priority should be you. Yes, they were selfish in their conduct. People are, sometimes. People fall in love, and out of love, too. It happens. It’s human. It hurts, of course, but there is little one can do about it. So, you have a choice now. You can stay up there and get drenched by the rain and most likely electrocuted by a bolt of lightning. Or you can come down, let me know if I got everything right or if I missed some detail or other – there’s always something, you know – and together we can work on a plan to communicate to your parents what you’re afraid and how to avoid hurting you, and themselves. How does that sound?”

There is more silence, which makes Sherlock wonder if he has literally barked up the wrong tree. He casts a quick glance at John who is watching him with a strange expression. Sherlock recognises admiration and fondness, but also lines of grief and regret. Is he thinking of Mary and his own daughter? Likely yes.

Suddenly, a long sniff sounds from the branches, followed by the sound of someone blowing their nose. The branches rustle, then a voice that’s slightly hoarse from crying asks timidly yet with unmistakable curiosity, “Are you the detective with the hat?”

John snorts at this, looking at Sherlock with a warm expression. Sherlock, too, laughs softly.

“Yes, sometimes.”

Another sniff. “I read about you in the papers. Daddy had an article a while ago, and he said you were family. He wouldn’t tell me more, so I looked on the internet. Did you ever find the rabbit?”

“The what?” Sherlock is confused. But then it dawns on him. “Oh, Bluebell?”

John stuffs his fist into his mouth to prevent himself from bursting out laughing. Sherlock bites his lips. “Yes, in a way. There was some confusion with a rabbit from a laboratory. That’s why it glowed in the dark. Jellyfish genes spliced into its DNA, you see. I’m sorry to say that Bluebell didn’t survive the switch, though.”

“That’s sad,” says Tiffany. She seems to think for a moment, then, “Okay, I will come down. But you must promise not to tell mum and dad just now.”

“We promise,” the two men reply in unison.

“Need help there, Tiffany?” asks John.

“No, I’m fine. I’ll let down my rucksack now.”

Both men step back from the trunk, just in time before a heavy rucksack hits the ground near Sherlock’s feet with an almighty crash, accompanied by a soft curse from above. “Sorry. Rope slipped.”

Given its bulk and weight, Sherlock marvels that she managed to drag it up the tree in the first place. It seems to contain everything needed to survive a week in the wild. Or a year. “Sure you’ll manage?” he asks.

“Yes.” Moments later, Tiffany Warrington’s naked feet dangle from the lower branches, followed by the rest of the girl when skilfully, she lowers herself from the tree. She is dressed in a pair of old jeans, the legs of which are rolled up around her knees. On top of this she is attired in a tunic-like blouse that looks too large for her (likely her mother’s) and is fastened with a leather belt. Her hair is cut short inexpertly, wispy strands are sticking out here and there. She smells of sun-cream and sheep, and, interestingly, of artificial strawberry flavour.

 _Hubba Bubba,_ shoots through Sherlock’s mind. _Goodness, I didn’t know they still produced them._

“Sherlock?” John asks softly, stepping closer to him. “All right?”

Sherlock nods. “Just ... memories.” He swallows, running a hand over his eyes and through his hair. Now that Tiffany is standing before him and he finds his suspicions concerning the mysterious boy Ellie saw confirmed. He is caught between gratification about his deduction having been right and a strange sense of disappointment. The description the old woman gave ... it sounded so achingly familiar. _Stupid, stupid,_ he scolds himself. _That’s what you get from letting your imagination, from letting sentiment run away with you. Stick to the facts, for God’s sake. The past is past. It won’t return. There is no way Jan would still be around. If he ever was._

Drawing a deep breath, he fights for composure. Looking at the girl in front of him, he finds her eyes on him, keen and curious. “Hello Tiffany,” he greets her.

“Hello Mr. Holmes,” she replies.

“Sherlock,” he offers. Despite still looking somewhat apprehensive, she smiles.

“Sherlock, okay. Is it true that mum and dad don’t know yet what happened?”

“We haven’t told them,” John assures her. “We didn’t even tell them where we were going. Sherlock was very certain we’d find you here.”

Sherlock nods. “As I said, your drawings gave you away. Those, and your chalky footprints.”

Tiffany sighs, picking a twig out of her hair. “I wasn’t planning on staying away for long, I promise. I just ...,” she looks sad again. “They’re going to get a divorce, aren’t they?”

She gazes up at Sherlock and John with large, pleading eyes. Sherlock doesn’t know what to reply. Tiffany knows the truth. No use in telling her a lie. He doesn’t want to hurt her, though. Normally, he has few qualms of informing people about the truth. But this is a child, sensitive and already troubled. Perhaps some sugar-coating might be appropriate.

Luckily, John takes over. To Sherlock’s surprise, he is shockingly frank. “In all likelihood, yes,” he says. “But, Tiffany, that doesn’t mean that they don’t love you anymore. Okay? Like Sherlock said, sometimes people fall out of love with each other. Or they still love each other, but can’t stay together as a couple or a family because it doesn’t work for some reason, and they’re better off on their own. Or, while they still love their partner and their child, they find that they’ve fallen in love with someone else.”

It’s brief, almost unnoticeable. But Sherlock catches the second John’s eyes stray to him during his words. The glance hits him right in the chest. Does John mean what Sherlock thinks his words implied: that despite loving Mary and his daughter, he has fallen in love with someone else. With Sherlock, of all people. Is this true? Is it wishful thinking? He can’t be sure, and he curses this fact.

“So they may decide to part ways,” continues John, “But you know, Tiffany, they’ll always be your parents, and they’ll always love you. Always. Even if one of them may not be around every day. They’ll still want to look after you, make sure you’re happy. It also means that whatever happens between them, it’s not your fault. You’re not to blame that their marriage may not be working anymore. It’s their fault, and theirs alone.”

Tiffany gazes up at him. She looks close to tears again, but fights them down, sniffs and swallows, and nods. “I think I’d like to go home now,” she says in a small voice.

“Would you like us to call ahead so that they can meet us with a car down at the car-park?” asks John gently.

Tiffany shakes her head. “I’d like to walk, I think. I’ll be grounded for the rest of the holidays after this, because of the letters, and because of everything else. I might as well catch some fresh air now while I still can.”

Sherlock smiles faintly. “How much ransom were you planning on demanding?” he asks, pointing at the slip of paper peeking out of the front pocket of the rucksack. Briefly, Tiffany’s eyes widen in surprise, then she smiles slyly.

“Ten thousand. They can afford it, I know. Dad has a good salary. He’s been thinking about buying a motorcycle. I don’t like that. I hate them. They’re noisy and annoying, and dangerous. So many people get hurt or killed on the roads. He should rather spend the money on something else. I wanted to give the ransom to the homeless people in London.”

“That is very kind and selfless of you,” says Sherlock, feeling quite touched. “You know what, even though we haven’t discussed a fee with your parents, they did promise to recompense us generously if we brought you back unharmed. Well, we’ve found you in rather a short time. You’re unharmed apart from a bit of sunburn. What do you say? Should we charge them ten thousand as a fee, with the obligation that they make it a donation to some homeless charity?”

Tiffany beams at him. “Oh yes, I’d like that.” Then she sobers up a little. “I hope they won’t be too angry.”

“They’ll more than likely be happy and relieved to have you back,” John assures her. “But you really need to talk about the future. All three of you.”

Tiffany snorts, kicking at a small stone in the grass. “Something to look forward to.”

John and Sherlock exchange a glance over her head and a wry smile. “Let me take your rucksack, Tiffany,” offers John. She nods, and John huffs when he lifts it. “Bloody hell, what have you got in there?”

She shrugs. “Food and drink and warm clothes, and a blanket and a toothbrush and other necessary things. And some books, of course.”

“Some?”

“A few.”

“Half a library, I’d say.”

“Well, I didn’t want to be bored. And I don’t like reading books on my phone.”

John rolls his eyes when he sees Sherlock’s smile. “Tiffany, do you have any of the Hubba Bubbas left?” asks Sherlock. _I might as well go in for the complete immersion in nostalgia while I’m here,_ he decides. _Sentiment._

She rummages in the pockets of her jeans. “Sure. Here. Do you want one, too, Dr. ... John?”

John laughs and shakes his head. “No, thanks. Didn’t know you liked them, Sherlock,” he comments when Sherlock peels the paper of one and carefully pops it into his mouth. Immediately, his mind is flooded with more memories.

“I haven’t had one for almost thirty years,” he says, swallowing the juice. “They’re quite ... interesting, I must say.”

John shakes his head, smiling. “Did you last share some with your friend here?” he asks.

Sherlock nods, surprised by the direct question.

“You said you were here before and knew the place very well,” muses Tiffany as they begin their walk back towards Washington. The wind has picked up even more, now carrying the distinct smell of petrichor. The moon has almost vanished in a bank of dark clouds riding up from the South-West. It’s going to rain soon, likely accompanied by thunder and lightning.

“Yes, as a child,” replies Sherlock. He stops and turns, looking at Chanctonbury Ring as it stands, dark yet inviting, the wind stirring the leaves and swaying the trees, sighing in the branches: a promise of escape and adventure once again. Sheep are dotting the short turf surrounding the woody island, like grey ships on a grassy sea. Some are already heading towards the trees and clumps of hawthorn in the hollows of the Down, looking for shelter against the oncoming summer storm. They move in coordination, walking one after the other, as if something or someone were herding them to safety. It doesn’t take a great leap of imagination to see the grey streak of a skilled sheepdog at work instead of the shadow of a fast-moving cloud, cast by a brief reappearance of the moon – an ancient dog-breed as old as the chalky hills, not far removed from the wolfish ancestors of domestic dogs, obeying commands in an ancient language.

Did Sherlock just hear a call? Was it the wind? Is it a shadow or a real dog? He hears a dull rumble like the growl of a large canine. Or was it distant thunder?

Suddenly, he feels he can’t trust his senses any longer. But unlike on previous occasions when he was under the influence of drugs, either self-administered or inhaled like in Dewer’s Hollow, now he knows that he is sober. It’s the place, this strange place with its sights and sounds and smells and the taste of Hubba Bubba, in combination with his memories that are messing with his head. And the thing is, he doesn’t mind. Unlike his experience in Dartmoor when his altered perception evoked fear and despair over the loss of control, right now the blur of what’s real and imagined is almost welcome. It feels freeing, gives him a feeling of peace he hasn’t experienced in a long time. This is sentiment, imagination taking over, something he hasn’t allowed himself to indulge in for so long, due to his insistence to always stick to scientific facts. Even the imagined case of Emilia Ricolletti felt different. It was an unreal scenario. This here, this is real. He is here, he can feel the wind and hear the sounds, and smell the sheep. And he has missed it, deeply.

Again, John is at his side. “Sherlock? Everything all right?” Sherlock opens his eyes again, breathes deeply and nods.

A brief flash of lightning splits the sky. “You were right about the lightning,” says Tiffany. She is, however, not watching the sky but the cloud-shadows chasing the sheep.

Sherlock spins round to her, frowning. Why is she looking at the shadow moving over the turf with such intent? Has she seen it, too, the dog?

He looks at her imploringly. He has to know. “Tiffany, in one of your drawings, you depicted yourself with a witch’s hat and dress—”

“Yes, that’s because of my favourite books,” she explains.

“Yes, I know. You identify with the protagonist,” Sherlock says quickly. “You drew yourself repeatedly like this. But in the drawing I’m referring to, you also captured sheep and this place here, Chanctonbury Ring.”

Tiffany thinks for a moment, then nods. “Yes. I think I know which picture you mean. There’s also Roland on it.”

“Roland?”

“He’s another character in the books. He’s Tiffany’s friend. Kinda. I mean, in the first books she goes and saves him from the Queen of the Fairies. She rescues him because she’s so clever, you see, and because she is a witch. And also because she has a frying pan.”

At this, John lifts the rucksack from his shoulder and eyes it suspiciously. Tiffany notices and blushes. “You never know when you’re going to need it, do you?” she says a little defensively.

John sighs and nods. “Hope you don’t have a slow cooker in here as well.”

“So you drew this Roland character?” falls in Sherlock. “In your picture, I mean.”

Tiffany nods. “He’s all right, although he marries another girl in the end. But I didn’t want him to marry Tiffany, anyway. She’s a witch. She has no time for boys and marrying.”

“I see.” Is he disappointed? What did he expect?

He becomes aware of Tiffany watching him strangely. She steps next to him and gazes out over the Down, her eyes following the line of the South Downs Way.

“I didn’t really know how to draw him. I mean, he’s described in the books, of course. But for the clothes, I asked Ellie because she knows about what knights and the people who lived here in the past used to wear. But only when I came up here I suddenly had an idea how to draw his face, almost if I could see him. It’s funny, because the Chalk in the books where Tiffany lives is so similar to this place. So maybe this helped with imagining things. It was really great for drawing the sheep.”

“I think I read that the author used to live in Wiltshire,” muses John. “You also get chalk downs there. Guess his surroundings inspired the stories, and the old legends some of the characters. Hey, but we should really get a move on now. I think I’ve felt a drop. Sherlock, you okay? You’ve been uncharacteristically silent.” He leans to Tiffany and adds. “Normally, he has an opinion on everything. Because he knows so much.”

Tiffany looks up at Sherlock and smiles. “Like Ellie.”

Sherlock nods. “Yes, let’s go.” They turn to leave. “Tiffany, while you were here, did you see anyone else? Walkers, cyclists? Anybody minding the sheep?”

“There were some walkers, but I hid in the trees when they were around because I didn’t want them to see me. I wasn’t sure if mum and dad were going to follow the instructions. Dad has a friend who’s with the police. But the walkers didn’t stay long, and didn’t go inside the trees. Ellie said some people are scared of the trees because they think the place is haunted. There are many stories of ghosts appearing, and that if you run round the trees a few times – seven, I think – the devil will come and either kill you or give you a gift.”

She thinks for a moment. “Somebody was with the sheep for a while.”

At this, Sherlock tenses. _Could it be?_

“He was down near the water tank, though, so I didn’t see him up close. He had a dog with him though. I heard it bark.”

“Can you describe the person?” Sherlock asks quickly, eagerly. Again, Tiffany looks at him strangely.

“As I said, he was far away. But I think it was a man. Could have been a boy, too. It’s possible that he came on a bicycle.”

“And the dog?”

“Like a sheep dog. But not a Border Collie. I think it was larger, and looked a bit like the sheep from afar. Perhaps it was a Kuvasz.”

“A what?” asks John.

“Hungarian sheep dog,” Tiffany and Sherlock reply in unison, and then smile at each other.

John shakes his head, grinning as well. “Yeah, I can tell you’re related. Guess smart-arsery really runs in your family. Oh, fuck.” A quick, apologetic glance at Tiffany at the expletive, but she just grins. “How about that car now?”

The last comment is brought on by more rain drops, falling with increasing density now, accompanied by another gust of wind and a very distinct bolt of lightning, followed after a short while by the rumble of thunder.

Sherlock fishes his mobile out of his pocket. “I’ll call Vanessa.”

 

**– <o>–**

 

The have reached the crossroads after which the South Downs Way dips down into the forest when the rain begins in earnest. It is surprisingly cold and strong. Large drops are soaking their clothes in a matter of minutes. The thunderstorm has moved in, too, but judging by the number of seconds between lightning and thunder it is still away far enough to be no immediate danger.

They stop briefly for Tiffany to fetch her anorak out of her rucksack and pull it on. Then they hurry on. The trees offer some protection against the weather, although the wind drives the rain through their branches, tearing at Sherlock’s hair and soaking his jacket and shirt, making him wish for his trusty Belstaff once more.

Soon, the stony track they are descending turns into a narrow, milky brook, and it becomes slippery and treacherous, forcing them to slow down considerably. Tiffany has put on her shoes again, but the slick soles of her trainers prove as unsuitable as Sherlock’s expensive Italian leather shoes.

In the relative shelter of a dense patch of tangled forest, John stops. Stroking his sodden fringe away from his forehead, he looks at Sherlock and Tiffany disapprovingly. “Guess wearing unsuitable footwear runs in the family, too. Sherlock, take the rucksack. Tiffany, will it be okay if I carry you?”

Tiffany nods. Despite the anorak, she is soaking wet and shaking slightly. Her face is pale and her lips tinged blue. She looks exhausted. Sherlock takes off his jacket and drapes it over her, before taking the rucksack from John. It really is heavy, and he grunts when he lifts it onto his shoulders. The bullet wound in his chest twinges at the exertion, but he ignores the stab of pain.

John, too, heaves a sigh when he stands again after letting Tiffany climb onto his back. “Ready?” he asks. Sherlock and Tiffany nod.

 

**– <o>–**

 

The headlights of the Warringtons’ Skoda are a welcoming beacon in the stormy darkness when they step out of the forest and find the car waiting near the edge of the wood where the path is still wide enough for four-wheeled vehicles. As soon as they have been spotted, the driver turns off the engine while leaving the lights on, and Vanessa and Daniel exit the car, hurrying towards the small group.

Tiffany motions to be let down. Her feet have barely touched the ground before Vanessa has reached her and has swept her into her arms with a sob. Tiffany is crying, too. Sherlock catches whispered apologies and Vanessa’s soothing voice. Daniel leans in to rub his daughter’s back, before gently steering his wife and child towards the car.

Next to Sherlock, John rubs his left shoulder with a grunt and an expression of discomfort. _Of course. Stupid._ Sherlock bites his lip, brushing his lank curls from his forehead. He should have carried Tiffany to spare John the pain.

Feeling Sherlock’s eyes on him, John shakes his head. “It’s fine. Just twinges a bit. Come on. I don’t fancy walking the rest of the way.”

By the time they have reached the car, Vanessa and Daniel have bundled Tiffany into the back seat with Vanessa slipping in beside her, wrapping her in a blanket. Sherlock puts the rucksack into the boot. John also climbs into the back – his legs are shorter, so it’s sensible, although it condemns Sherlock to sit in the front next to his cousin.

Once they’re all settled in the large car (Sherlock feels some vindictive pleasure at the realisation of how wet and dirty the seats are going to be after this drive), Daniel turns on the heating and air condition to get rid of the misted windows.

“Are you all right there in the back?” he wants to know. “Tiffany?”

“Fine, daddy,” she says in a small voice.

“Get us home, Daniel. She is soaked through and trembling with cold,” butts in Vanessa.

“She should be fine after a warm bath and some food and sleep,” John assures her.

“What about the kidnappers?” asks Daniel as carefully, he reverses the car down the track.

“That’s for Tiffany to explain,” says Sherlock gravely.

Tiffany sobs some more.

“But not tonight,” he adds quickly, to spare her a more detailed interrogation. “She is unhurt, and like Dr. Watson has said, should be fine after some warmth and rest. However, you three have a lot to talk about. It can wait until tomorrow, certainly, but not much longer.”

“Talk? About what?”

Sherlock sighs. “Your familial situation.”

“What—?” Daniel huffs, but Vanessa interrupts him. “He is right. We have to talk. And we should include Tiffany. You’re worried, aren’t you, sweetie? About us? About what’s going to happen to you? That’s why you were ... kidnapped, wasn’t it?”

Tiffany sniffs. In the rear mirror, Sherlock sees her nod. She looks miserable. Vanessa smooths some of the wet hair from her forehead and then leans in to press a kiss to the top of her head.

Shifting his vantage point slightly to be able to see John’s reaction in the mirror, Sherlock observes how he swallows and looks away. No great deduction needed to know what he must be thinking about.

“What do you mean?” asks Daniel gruffly. “What has this to do with what happened to her?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes at his cousin’s remark. “Come on, Daniel. Your wife has worked it out already. Think.”

“You can tell him, Sherlock,” says Tiffany softly. “Better have it out now.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me what?” asks Daniel archly.

“Tiffany wasn’t abducted, was she?” muses Vanessa.

“No, she wasn’t,” confirms Sherlock.

Sherlock watches Daniel’s forehead crease in a frown, he casts a quick glance over his shoulder, before looking at Sherlock, who sighs. “She abducted herself, or rather, ran away.”

Daniel stops the car abruptly. “What? Why?”

“Because her parents were being selfish and she was afraid she was going to end up with either – or, worse, neither – of you,” Sherlock tells him sternly. “Daniel, you have a highly intelligent and highly observant daughter. Runs in the family, perhaps, although, you, apparently, were skipped when it came to the distribution of deductive skills. Do you really believe she didn’t pick up that there was discontent between you and your wife? She knows about your affair, she knows about your divorce talks. She probably has classmates who are victims of divorce. So of course she’d worry. She loves both of you equally, and doesn’t want to see the family break apart.”

Daniel has turned in his seat and is gazing at his daughter like he is seeing her for the very first time. “Is that true, Tiffany?” he asks.

Tiffany sniffs again. “Yes, daddy.”

Daniel deflates as he sinks back into his seat, looking altogether miserable as he pinches the bridge of his nose. Sherlock feels a brief sensation of victory, of justice being done for years of torment, before the emotion is displaced, surprisingly, by pity.

“So ...,” Daniel runs a hand through his hair, “so you mean ... you ran away, and you made these letters, and you cut off your beautiful hair?”

“Yes.”

“Holy shit.”

“That’s ten pennies for the piggy bank, daddy.”

“Fuck, yes. Yeah, yeah, I know, another fifty. Sorry.” He turns to Tiffany again, who is smiling tentatively now, looking like a caterpillar wrapped in her blanket, and he smiles as well. “It needs a bit of straightening at your fringe, but it suits you.”

Tiffany smiles in earnest now. “I’ve always wanted short hair. It’s much more practical in summer. But you and mummy never wanted to take me to the hairdresser to get it cut off.”

Vanessa runs her hand through her daughter’s inexpertly cut bob. “You can have whatever hairstyle you like if you promise never to run away like this again.”

Tiffany smiles at her. “Okay.” She thinks for a moment. “Any? Really?”

“Within reason.”

“I’d discourage bleaching,” puts in Sherlock. “Really damages the hair. And if you expose it to chlorinated water, it turns green. But you can reverse the effect by putting ketchup on it.”

“Really?” Tiffany seems fascinated.

“Don’t give her ideas,” begs Daniel.

“When did you bleach your hair?” asks John.

“While I was away,” answers Sherlock, watching John’s reaction in the mirror. His expression darkens briefly, as it always does when Sherlock refers to his time abroad. It’s still a sore topic between them. The issue’s never really been resolved, perhaps never will be.

Luckily, John’s mood improves almost immediately. “Ketchup, really?”

Sherlock smiles. “Works wonders.”

“I want to try this,” announces Tiffany.

“Not this year, sweetie,” says Vanessa with mock sternness. “We’ve had enough hair experiments for a while, I think.”

Daniel starts the engine again. The rest of the drive continues in silence, each of them mulling over what has happened. By the time they reach the house, the rain has eased somewhat and the thunderstorm has moved on north-eastward. The air is cool and fresh when they exit the car. Daniel lifts Tiffany into his arms while Vanessa fetches her rucksack from the boot.

“Thank you, Sherlock, John,” she tells them gravely. “Please, come in. You need some dry clothes. Also, are you planning to return to London tonight or are you going to stay here until tomorrow? I can arrange for accommodation, if you prefer the latter. It’s quite late.”

Sherlock casts a quick glance at John who looks cold and tired and hungry, just the way he feels himself. However, the thought of spending the night under Daniel’s roof sends a shiver down his spine that has little to do with the weather and his drenched clothes. Vanessa seems to read his thoughts with surprising ease.

“We have a guestroom I could prepare, but I understand if you don’t want to stay here. There aren’t any hotels or B&Bs in Washington, but I could check at Findon Manor. It’s just a few miles down the road. We celebrated our wedding there and know the owners well. I’m sure they can find some space for you. Come in and let me check, okay?”

Sherlock glances at John who shrugs, then makes a face, sighs and nods. His shoulder seems to be troubling him as he reaches out to rub it. They step into the house. Sherlock notices how the curtain of Ellie’s living room twitches briefly and he smiles to himself.

Daniel comes down the stairs as they step into the hall. He hands Sherlock’s jacket back to him. “Tiffany is in the bathroom now,” he informs his wife who nods, her mobile against her ear.

“I’ll check on her in a moment. Let me just arrange accommodation for Sherlock and Dr. Watson. You can find some dry clothes for them, Daniel.”

“That won’t be necessary,” says John. “We brought some.”

Sherlock frowns at him. “We did?”

John rolls his eyes. “Yes. Didn’t you notice I brought a bag when we fetched the car? I packed some basic toiletries, and a shirt each and a pair of trousers, as well as something to sleep in. Wasn’t sure how long the case was going to take and how messy it was going to get, but past experience has taught me to be prepared.”

Sherlock is impressed while being annoyed slightly. He did see the bag, but was so preoccupied with thinking about the case that he didn’t pay any attention to it. The corner of his mouth twitches upwards in a smile. _Good thinking, John._

Daniel has been watching them with a curious expression, then, rubbing the back of his neck, steps in front of Sherlock. Straightening up and letting out a long breath, “Thank you,” he says. He looks embarrassed and distinctly uncomfortable.

Sherlock inclines his head.

Daniel nods to himself, hesitates, then swallows and says, “Listen, Sherlock—”

Sherlock holds up a hand to forestall him, but next to him, John shakes his head. “Let him say his bit,” he insists quietly.

Sherlock lowers his hand. John is right.

Daniel swallows again. “I’ll make it brief. I ... I’d like to apologise. For what I said earlier. And for all those instances I treated you less than kindly back when we were children. I’ve been thinking about what you said, about Tiffany. About how she’s intelligent and different. Special. She really is. She is different from other children. I don’t think we’ve really appreciated how much until now. As I said, I thought about it, tried to imagine her at school. And then I thought how the other children might react to her. She ... I don’t think she has any problems that way. You know. Bullying. But she doesn’t have many friends, either. She spends so much time on her own, or with old Ellie next door. That always seemed odd to me.”

He licks his lips, once more running his hand through his hair. “What I’m trying to say is that I worry that she may get teased by others because of how she is. It may seem innocent, but it isn’t, is it? Teasing, bullying. It leaves scars. Anyway ... I’m sorry. For how we treated you back then. You never tried to fit in, and I think we didn’t know how to deal with that. But we shouldn’t have been such arseholes about it, whatever we felt towards you. So ... yeah. I’m sorry. And thank you again for agreeing to help us with Tiffany. You really didn’t have to do that. I’d have understood had you declined.”

Sherlock does not know what to reply, so he nods gravely. Of all things, this level of reflection and introspection, and indeed an apology for past cruelty is the last he expected from Daniel. His apology seems to be genuine. It can’t override years of bullying, but it’s a start.

“I hold you responsible for never taking sides with bullies again, nor engaging in acts that are damaging to others, be they your colleagues, family members, or even people you don’t like,” he tells Daniel sternly. “You, your brother, your parents and your friends made me loathe and fear having to spend time here for years. You hurt me enough to send me to hospital once.”

Daniel casts down his eyes. “Sorry. I really am.” He eyes flick up to Sherlock’s again. “Although you have to admit you could be a bit of an arse, too, always using those complicated words and deducing stuff about us just to make us look like idiots.”

At Sherlock’s side, John bristles with indignation.

“Well, you _were_ idiots compared to me. And hitting back verbally was about my only line of defence,” returns Sherlock.

Daniel frowns at him as if considering to dispute Sherlock’s words, but then he deflates and nods.

“Do you really think Tiffany’s intelligence is above average?” he changes the subject.

“Yes. Her emotional intelligence in particular. That’s why she spends so much time at Ellie’s – who, by the way, is another person you should apologise to. She has been a great source of comfort for your daughter, the same way that thirty years ago, she was for me. Your comments about her were all but kind, to put it mildly. Without her, Tiffany would have suffered even more.”

“Ellie? How?”

Sherlock sighs and rolls his eyes. “Where do you think Tiffany spent her afternoons when you were at work? She helped Ellie round her house and garden and kept her company, in exchange for knowledge, wisdom and friendship. If you want to atone for what you did to me when we were children, start looking after your ‘crazy’ neighbour. Ellie can still teach you a thing or two. She needs help with daily tasks, but even more than that she needs regular company. Oh, and a better internet connection. She’s still on dial-up on an ancient Mac. Provide her with a new computer or tablet and a decent wifi so that she can continue to reply to people writing to her with their worries. And she can catch up her favourite shows online.”

Daniel nods to himself. “Yeah, we can do that. Yes.” He thinks for a moment. “I wasn’t aware that Tiffany cared so much about others. I mean, she’s always been kind and friendly enough, but often in a remote kind of way. She spends so much time by herself. We had her tested and everything. IQ, these things. But those are only numbers, right? We were also considering having tests for autism. But those test aren’t very precise, either, are they? I heard it’s difficult to get a reliable diagnosis.”

“It can be,” agrees Sherlock. “Make sure to get more than one opinion. But don’t drag your daughter from one psychologist to the next just to get a diagnosis, look into how to support her to make sure she’s happy.”

“First of all you should discuss how to rearrange your familial affairs,” cautions John. “If you’re really heading for a divorce, include her in the talks. Make sure you consider her wellbeing in the first place, before your own.”

Daniel turns to him, startled. He frowns briefly, but then he nods. “Yes, yes, of course. Shit, what a mess.”

“Of your own doing,” Sherlock reminds him.

Daniel’s eyes narrow, but then he sighs wearily. “Yes. Mostly, I’m to blame, am I not?”

“Yes,” says Sherlock sternly.

“What can I do?”

“I just told you.”

“No, I mean about the mess here.”

“You are asking the wrong person, Daniel. As you so adroitly pointed out earlier, I have little personal experience with relationships, and none whatsoever with extramarital affairs. In my professional capacity, however, I often see their outcomes, particularly when people eschew the talking and try to settle things with alternative means when they have become too convoluted and desperate for an easy solution. Most of the time, one or more of the parties ends up in the morgue. Go with John’s advice: talk to each other, and put your child’s wellbeing above your own. If you don’t love your wife any more, be honest. If you have to part ways, do so, but amicably. Tiffany loves both of you. Don’t make her choose. And if you need help, external, expert help like a marriage guidance counsellor, ask for it.”

Daniel exhales shakily and nods. “I will. Thank you.” He glances at Sherlock with a shrewd expression. “You know, I always thought you were a cold, heartless freak who thought other people were below you because they lacked your level of intelligence. But you’re not like that, are you? You do care about people.”

“I care about some people,” returns Sherlock, his eyes switching to John before he can prevent it. He is sure Daniel notices, and so does John, but he decides he doesn’t mind. “And I can return the compliment, I guess. I always believed you were a stupid, brainless bully who got worse when he was trying to impress his friends – morons such as your cousin Tom. But your daughter adores you, and she’s highly intelligent and observant so I trust her judgement. You can be much less of a macho arsehole when you want to be.”

Daniel’s brows draw together dangerously. Next to Sherlock, John tenses, his fist clenching at his side. But then Daniel starts to laugh, and to Sherlock’s surprise, he reaches out to clap his shoulder. “Poncy public school boffin,” he quips, but there is no spite in his words. “You looked really daft with that deerstalker hat you wore in the papers.”

“Boorish midlife-crisis city-boy,” returns Sherlock. “You should know that a sun-bank tan never looks real, and that your daughter hates the idea of the motorcycle you just wanted to buy to impress your lover, because you secretly fear that she might move on unless you constantly pamper her.”

Daniel’s laugh evaporates and he nods darkly, withdrawing his hand. He takes a step back and clears his throat. “Yeah, I suspected as much.”

“Why continue the affair, then?” asks John.

Daniel shrugs.

“Because the sex is good,” points out Sherlock, rolling his eyes. “At least for him. You need to sort out your priorities, Daniel. Blame it on my inexperience with and disinterest in these things, but I never understood why people waste so much time, money and energy on that activity.”

John glances at Sherlock thoughtfully, but before either he or Daniel can reply, Vanessa returns.

“Are you boys done insulting each other?” she asks. “Mariella over at Findon Manor would like to know when you’ll be arriving, and whether you’d like the meat course, poultry or fish for dinner.”

She hands an iPad to Sherlock on which a restaurant’s menu is displayed. John steps closer to peer over his arm.

“Normally, their kitchen is already closed at this time, but they’re doing us a favour. I’ve booked rooms for the night, and they’re expecting you.”

“Thank you,” says John. “I’ll take the fish. For Sherlock, too, I think.” He glances at Sherlock who nods. “And some extra chips for him, please, if possible.”

Vanessa nods and withdraws into the living room again. Sherlock raises an eyebrow at John. “Chips?”

“You love chips after a good case. Don’t think I’ve forgotten. And you need the calories. You’ve lived on biscuits and little else today, and not much more yesterday. I did notice, even if I didn’t comment on it. It’s about time I started looking after you again, given that you’ve looked after me so well these past few months.” He winks at Sherlock, who can’t help a smile spreading across his face.

Daniel glances at each of them in turn, frowns, before excusing himself and slipping into the living room.

A short while later, Daniel and Vanessa return into the hall. “Everything is arranged. It’s just down the road in Findon village,” she says. “You can’t miss it if you follow the A24. If it’s okay for you, we’ll meet you there tomorrow for brunch.”

Daniel nods. “Then we can talk about your fee, too.”

“Tiffany already has some ideas concerning that,” Sherlock informs him.

Daniel glances towards the stairs. “I bet she has. Well,” he clears his throat, “all right, then. See you tomorrow. And thank you once again. For finding her and bringing her back unharmed.”

Sherlock gives him another curt nod, then he reaches out to steer John out of the door with a light touch between his shoulder blades. “See you tomorrow.”

Outside, the rain has stopped and the moon is peeking through the fast-moving clouds again. Mist is rising from the tarmac in soft, silver-white curls. The air smells fresh, of trees and grass and the wisteria in front of the Warrington house. Bats are out, their high-pitched cries on the edge of hearing as they swoop and flutter between the houses. Next door, Ellie’s living room is illuminated by the glow of her television. Sherlock feels gratitude well up inside him, and he silently vows to pass by on their journey back to London to thank her.

“Want me to drive?” he asks when they have reached their rented car. The chewing gum has lost its taste by now and he digs in his pocket for a rather sodden slip of paper to get rid of it, after briefly considering to spit it into Daniel’s front garden. His ten year old self would have done it, but apparently he _has_ grown up a little since then.

“All right,” says John. Sherlock gives him a long glance, but finds his expression difficult to read. John hands him the keys and sinks into the passenger seat with a long sigh.

The short drive passes in silence. John sits with his eyes closed. He looks weary and moreover pensive, deep in thought. Sherlock wonders whether he is reflecting about his own familial situation in comparison to the Warringtons’.

Sherlock is grateful for having to concentrate on the road. The visit to Chanctonbury Ring and moreover Tiffany’s words concerning the strange shepherd she saw have shaken him. More memories he thought long buried are rising to the surface again, rattling the locks of their rooms. He must not indulge in them now, but must wait for the privacy of his room at the hotel.

 

**– <o>–**

 

According to John, Findon Manor is ‘posh but cosy’. Sherlock agrees with this assessment. The hotel lies off the village high street, a three-storied 17th century house with Georgian and later renovations, its façade clad in flint cornered by red bricks. Several cars are parked in front of it, their number plates mostly local. Apparently some kind of family celebration is taking place in the attached pub.

“Good thinking,” Sherlock tells John as they approach the reception, nodding towards the small overnight bag John has fetched from the boot of the car. John nods and smiles.

“Yeah, well, couldn’t count on you packing anything, could I? Did you even bring the charger for your phone?”

Sherlock shakes his head, feeling like a bit of an idiot, but John lifts the bag and pats it, his smile turning into a grin. “How on earth did you manage when I wasn’t around?”

“I didn’t. Not well, at least.”

This earns Sherlock a long, thoughtful, almost troubled glance and a curt nod.

 

**– <o>–**

 

Their ‘rooms’ turn out to be just one, a double. Mariella, the owner of the hotel, a woman in her early forties who Sherlock recognises from Vanessa’s Ibiza photos _(friend of Vanessa’s, owns a small dog, loves horse-riding despite a moderately serious accident a few years ago that shattered her collar-bone, ardent fan of ‘Wills and Kate’ and their family, allergic to nickel),_ apologises profusely.

“Vanessa originally booked two. We only have the double and a family room available at the moment because of the birthday that’s taking place in the pub. Many of the guests are staying overnight. But then she called back and changed it to the double only. Would that be a problem? You can have the other room, too, if you’d like.”

“No, it’s fine,” says John before Sherlock can reply. “No need to block space for five or more people when we’re only two, right, Sherlock?”

Sherlock nods. He isn’t quite sure how to feel about the room situation. On the one hand, he was looking forward to a bit of privacy to finally unwind alone with his thoughts. And there is so much to think about. The past and present of Washington and Chanctonbury Ring, his own memories of and associations with the place. His conversation with John. Ah yes, he needs to think about John in particular, and how what he has learned changes his own attitude to their relationship and his feelings for the other.

On the other hand, sharing a room with John … he hasn’t done that ever since their trip to Dartmoor where they had a twin room. The first night, after their quarrel, Sherlock stayed away until he was certain John had fallen asleep, after which he crept into the room and spent the remainder of the night wide awake, lying on his bed in the dark and listening to John breathe. The second night he must have slept, too, at least for a while, because he remembers waking up from John having a nightmare and calling out in his sleep. John didn’t wake, didn’t notice that Sherlock spent the remaining hours of darkness at his bedside, wondering whether John’s dreams had been worsened by the hallucinogenic drug he had been exposed to in the Baskerville labs, and whether it was Sherlock’s fault that he was suffering from disturbing visions that night.

Sherlock hasn’t watched over John’s sleep for a long time. He still has nightmares, he knows. But ever since John’s return to Baker Street, Sherlock lacked the courage to go up to his room, wasn’t sure he would be welcome, a ghost at John’s bedside in the middle of the night. He need not be a ghost now, he realises. They’re going to sleep side by side in a double bed. Or at least John is going to sleep. Sherlock isn’t, not one bit. But he looks forward to watching the other, guarding him against nightly terrors.

He nods. “The room is fine.”

Mariella smiles. “Excellent. That’s very kind of you. Would you like me to bring your dinner to the room, or do you prefer to come down to the restaurant? It’s next to the pub, so it might be a bit loud. They’re quite a boisterous crowd in there.”

“If you could serve it in our room we’d prefer that,” says Sherlock. He is in no mood to be pestered by drunken idiots, and John looks done in. They both need a shower and a change of clothes.

“What would you like to drink? Tea and coffee making facilities are in the room, of course, and water, too.”

“That’s great, thanks,” John assures her. Sherlock noticed that he hasn’t touched any alcohol ever since he returned to Baker Street, likely because he sensed that, like his sister, John is susceptible to it and runs the danger of becoming addicted if he lets drinking become a habit. Sherlock is in no mood for anything alcoholic, either. He rarely drinks alcohol, and has a low tolerance for it.

Their room, named after some local racehorse like all the rooms in the house, is fairly large and airy, furnished tastefully in cream and blue shades in a country-house style with some pieces of antique furniture dating back as far as the 18th century. The most striking feature is a four-poster bed complete with white hangings printed with a blue floral pattern.

John’s eyebrows rise almost into his hairline when he sees the bed.

“We can still book the other room as well,” says Sherlock. John turns to him. His expression is strange, soft and amused and a little unsure.

“I don’t mind. Sharing the bed with you, I mean. I know you don’t snore badly. Well, at least you don’t when you nap on the sofa, and didn’t when I watched you in hospital after …”

Sherlock snorts. “Yes, obviously I didn’t snore then. I was intubated for some time.”

John’s expression darkens at the reminder. “You didn’t snore afterwards, either,” he says stubbornly. “But if you’d like a bed of your own …”

“No, it’s fine. First time for everything.”

“We shared a room before, remember?”

“Yes. But not a bed. It’s a first, for me.”

“Right.” John glances at the four-poster, then back at Sherlock. “Do you mean you have never shared a bed before? Ever? Not even just … you know … for sleeping?”

Sherlock shifts a little uncomfortably. “Of course I haven’t. Why would I do such a thing? And with whom?”

John shrugs. “Don’t know. Never had a sleepover as a kid? Ah, no, guess you didn’t. And later …” His eyes narrow as he gazes at Sherlock, who sees pity in them and looks away. He really doesn’t want another conversation like they had during the ascent to the Down, despite the new data he gleaned about John Watson that way.

“John, once and for all. I prefer not to share close quarters with people. Never liked it, never will. Even at Harrow I had my own room, after a very short stay in the dormitory had proved disastrous. Those flatmates who attempted to share my lodgings fled after a few days, hours in one case, and good riddance. You are the notable exception. Now, do you want to shower first or shall I?”

“You can go first. I didn’t pack any pyjamas, just a t-shirt for each of us, but I think I’ve seen dressing gowns near the door. And here,” he hands Sherlock a stack of clothes from the bag: pants, socks, shirt, t-shirt, and, surprisingly, a pair of dark jeans Sherlock hasn’t worn in years.

“Where did you find these?”

“Your wardrobe. Thought them more appropriate for the countryside than your posh suits.”

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow at him. John holds his gaze and then grins. Sherlock refrains from commenting on how John’s clothing style has changed during the time he was away. He rarely wears his jumpers anymore, has switched to jackets and the odd cardigan over shirts that are more fitted than before. He has changed his hair, too, twice now, the first time after Sherlock’s presumed death, and the second after Mary’s. Sherlock is torn between liking this more handsome, sophisticated version of John and wishing for a return of the Arran jumper with its faint scent of sheep-wool.

“Well, there is no point of wearing them tonight, is there?” he returns pointedly, depositing most of the clothes on a chair and only keeping the t-shirt and pants . “Or do you plan on going out again?”

John stretches with a groan. “God, no. I need a shower, food and then sleep. Hurry, okay.”

Sherlock withdraws into the ensuite bathroom where he quickly strips down to his pants. The legs of his trousers are stained with white chalk, so are his shoes. He realises he has forgotten to fetch coat hangers for his damp suit and shirt, and so he returns to the room and walks over to the wardrobe. On his way back into the bathroom, he sees that John is watching him with a troubled expression, before quickly looking away and pretending to read something on his phone.

“What?” Sherlock stops and turns to him.

John looks up with a sigh. “The bullet scar. And your back.” He makes a vague gesture but doesn’t say more.

“We all carry our scars, John,” Sherlock replies quietly.

He is unprepared for the flash of anger in John’s eyes, much less for him standing up and walking over to Sherlock. He looks put out. Sherlock wonders if he’s angry at him. Will this be the confrontation about the Fall? Will they finally talk about that? Will old wounds be torn open again? Automatically, he takes a step back, and half lifts the coat hangers in his hands like a shield. Immediately, John freezes. His eyes widen in shock, and then he raises a hand to his mouth.

“Jesus, Sherlock. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he says. He looks utterly horrified. Sherlock lowers the coat hangers. He is confused.

“John?” he enquires cautiously. He notices that the hand John is covering his mouth with is trembling slightly.

John swallows and shakes his head. “Just now, you were afraid of me,” he states, and sounds utterly disgusted at himself.

Sherlock frowns. He feels completely out of his depth, and he doesn’t like it. “I wasn’t afraid. Why should I be afraid of you?”

“Because I’ve been an utter arsehole to you ever since you returned from ... wherever you went after you jumped from Barts roof. And also, I recognise signs of PTSD when I see them. Whatever happened to you, it left more scars than those on your back.”

“What makes you think so?” Sherlock wants to know. He really does. John may be right about the PTSD – Sherlock believes he has recognised some of the signs himself, even though he prefers not to heed them – but his sudden bout of self-loathing doesn’t make sense.

John sighs, running a hand over his face. “I didn’t pay enough attention to it at first. But there were instances when you flinched when there were loud noises, and immediately took up a protective or defensive stance. You always seem on high alert these days. When we’re somewhere new and potentially dangerous, you’re so high-strung that you seem to vibrate. Your unwillingness to talk about what happened to you is another indicator. For a long time, you made sure I didn’t see your back while you were in hospital. Sometimes, you woke suddenly from sleep and seemed disoriented, alarmed, even. I know you have nightmares. And there are many other small things I recognised from myself.”

Sherlock has to concede him a point. “You may be right. However, I don’t understand why you consider yourself an arsehole in this context.”

“Because I am. Because I didn’t treat you right. Because I didn’t pay enough attention to your suffering. Jesus, Sherlock. I punched you. When you returned. I threw you to the floor and I throttled and then punched you. And I head-butted you hard enough for your nose to start bleeding. And all that time, you had these wounds on your back. They weren’t healed back then, were they? Were they, Sherlock?”

Sherlock nods, startled by John’s anger, which, for a change, is directed at himself.

John groans and runs a hand over his eyes. “Oh God. And you didn’t even defend yourself.”

“You were angry, understandably so. I had betrayed your trust and hurt you. You had all the right—”

“Bullshit, Sherlock,” returns John fiercely. “Yes, I was angry. I was furious. But that didn’t give me the right to hurt you.”

“John,” he begins, but John holds up a finger.

“I’m not done. I need to say this, okay. I should have said it a while ago. A long time ago, in fact, but I was too much of an arse and a coward to do so. I ... I’ve been thinking a lot on our way down from that strange place we went today. So please, let me. Hear me out, because I don’t know if I’ll muster the courage to say it again any time soon.”

Sherlock nods, rather stunned. John gazes at him, then quickly steps over to the bathroom door and fetches a terry-cloth dressing gown, which he hands to Sherlock, exchanging it for the coat hangers with a sheepish look. Sherlock puts it on and ties the sash round his waist, then waits for John to continue. He paces a little, before, running a hand through his hair and licking his lips, he turns to Sherlock again.

“I’d like to apologise, Sherlock, for what I told you back at Baker Street today, before we left for Sussex. I said I wanted you back the way you used to be, cold and arrogant and a bit of a dick. But that’s not true. I don’t. Yes, you have changed. Or perhaps not changed, you have simply allowed a side of yours that you worked hard to hide for a long time to shine through more and more. I know you care. About Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, about Molly, your brother and your parents. In a way, you even look after Wiggins and your homeless network. You give them money, a lot of it, actually, so that they can sleep at shelters and have enough food, and get medical treatment when they need it. And you also give them what nobody else does: respect, and appreciation for their help. You also care about The Woman and Janine, in a way. You helped them, even if that help was a bit selfish. You saved Adler’s life, and you helped Janine get rid of her vile, abusive boss. You care about your clients. You’ve made it your job to solve their problems, some large and serious, some small and curious, some ridiculous and some downright weird or petty. Whatever they approach you with, in most cases you try and help them when they can’t find a solution themselves. Often, you don’t even charge them, or only charge those who can afford it. Those riddles and cases, yes, they are a distraction for you and keep your brain from imploding, but you also solve them because you want to genuinely help people. You are a good man, Sherlock Holmes, even if you often pretend you aren’t.”

Sherlock doesn’t know what to reply. A heavy lump has settled in his throat. He casts down his eyes and swallows. John’s words have touched him deeply. Sherlock wouldn’t call himself a good man. He is flawed, more deeply than John realises. He has hurt countless people. He is a murderer. How can these facts be reconciled with the idea of a good man?

“Thank you, John,” he manages, his voice hoarse. “That is,” he has to swallow again. “It’s very kind of you.”

John is not finished. He shakes his head. “It’s not kind, it’s the bloody truth. I should have told you this a long time ago.”

Sherlock raises his eyes to his. “You did, actually.”

“When?”

“At my grave.”

John stares at him, then nods. “I should have told you much sooner, to your face. And afterwards, after your return ... I should have treated you differently.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “You forgave me for lying to you. I couldn’t have asked for more.”

John takes a step towards him, his eyes glinting. “And that’s where you’re wrong, Sherlock. Where you’ve been wrong all along. That’s where me being an arse comes into play.”

“John, you really aren’t—”

“I am. I’m a selfish arse. You know, it was easy to be angry with you. To pretend that you spent two years jetting around the globe having splendid adventures, like James Bond. But you didn’t, did you? You endured two years of hell. You were captured at least once. Captured and tortured. Those scars, don’t think I don’t recognise them for what they are. I treated similar ones during my tours. You went away to get rid of Moriarty’s network. You went away to keep your friends safe. Because you cared. What was the deal, Sherlock? You didn’t keep me out of the loop to hurt me, did you?”

Sherlock shakes his head. He feels incredibly exposed in a way that has little to do with his lack of clothing. He swallows again, before gazing at John steadily. “Moriarty had set snipers onto you. You, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. After he’d killed himself, they had to see me jump, otherwise they would have killed you. Afterwards, you had to continue believing that I was dead, and act accordingly, to uphold the charade. Any hint about me being alive would have resulted in them shooting you and the others. That’s why I didn’t tell you. John, I’m sorry. I really am. But I had to make sure that your life wasn’t in danger anymore before I returned.”

John nods, apparently finding his suspicions confirmed. “We should have had this conversation when you came back,” he says sadly.

Sherlock shrugs. “Perhaps. But you had moved on. Mary was there. You seemed happy with her. I didn’t ... it didn’t seem appropriate to disrupt the life you had built for yourself.”

John’s fist clenches. “And that’s when I messed up again,” he spits, his voice full of self-loathing.

“How so?”

He gazes at Sherlock, his eyes hard. “Because I thought I could have both. Because I was selfish. I tried to justify it by telling myself that you’d hurt me, and so I kept you at arm’s length. We reconciled without really talking, and then we reverted back to a facsimile of what we had been, only with Mary as an addition. I thought I’d hit the jackpot, you see? I had her, a happy domestic life, and I had you back, and we went on to solve cases and have our little adventures together. But it was all a lie. Because she lied to me, much more than you had ever done. And she did it for selfish reasons, whereas you lied to protect your friends. You planned our bloody wedding, and she shot you in the chest. And then, after you’d flat-lined twice – fuck, Sherlock, do you have any idea how close you came to dying for real? – after all you’d gone through already, you went and shot Magnussen to make sure Mary was safe, and told me to forgive her and return to her, because that’s what you believed I wanted. Only, you didn’t do it for her, did you?”

John’s eyes on him grow hard.

“John,” begins Sherlock. John takes another step towards him, and his expression softens.

“You did it for me. All of it.” It’s not a question.

Sherlock nods.

John lets out a long breath, running a hand over his eyes. He looks stricken, as if his worst fears are being confirmed. “Jesus,” he whispers.

Sherlock casts down his eyes. He doesn’t know what to reply. For a while, neither speaks. John is breathing harshly. Sherlock can hear him swallow repeatedly. Eventually, John breaks the silence.

“That mission in Eastern Europe ... you weren’t planning on coming back, were you? It was a suicide mission. Six months ...,” John says, sounding immeasurably sad now.

Sherlock nods. “It was preferable to prison. They would have been forced to put me in solitary confinement to prevent a riot in whatever institution they could possibly put me in. I wouldn’t have lasted a fortnight there. My own brain would have torn itself to pieces.”

John sniffs. “Fuck. So you were going to certain death, and I was never supposed to know. Why?”

Sherlock draws a deep breath. “Because I didn’t want to cause you more pain. You had chosen a life for yourself, seemed reasonably happy with an assassin for a wife and a baby on the way. Why trouble you with my demise when I could make you believe that I was out there being clever and solving exciting cases. Playing Bond, as you called it. In time, I would have dwindled to a – hopefully fond – memory, something to tell your daughter one day when she stumbled across your blog. Your funny detective friend with the silly hat who was out there saving the world.”

For a moment, John looks furious, but then his expression changes into one of deep sadness again. He gazes at Sherlock long and steadily. “Why, Sherlock?”

Sherlock frowns. “I just told you.”

John shakes his head. “Try again. Tell me all, please.”

Sherlock’s shoulders sag, he casts down his eyes again because he feels exposed and vulnerable under John’s intense stare. Is this how people usually feel when he deduces them? “You’re my best friend,” he mutters evasively.

John looks up at him, nods to himself, as if he has understood something deeply important. “Was the reason the same why you left our wedding early?” he enquires gently.

Sherlock meets his eyes briefly, before looking down at his naked feet. “As you rightly said back then, we couldn’t all dance. The case was solved. Moreover the music wasn’t to my liking. I saw no reason for staying.”

John exhales loudly. For a moment, neither speaks. Then, to his surprise, Sherlock feels soft, tentative fingers at his chin, lifting his head. “Sherlock, I’d like to make a deduction. Will you correct me if I get it wrong?”

Sherlock’s eyebrow twitches. He swallows again. “All right,” he says.

John drops his hand, takes a deep breath. “When we climbed up to the Down, you said ... you said you’d been in love once. With a man.”

Sherlock tenses. His heart is beating so forcefully that he is sure that John must be able to hear it, and see the pulse racing in his throat. John licks his lips, his eyes steady on Sherlock’s, his expression kind as he continues.

“You love him still, don’t you?”

Sherlock feels his head twitch in a tiny nod. There is no way back now. The truth will be out in a moment, his heart laid bare. He is terrified of John’s reaction. Everything is going to change now. He closes his eyes – only to startle and blink when a knock sounds at the door. John curses under his breath, and the curse, of all things, snaps Sherlock out of his shocked state. He starts to chuckle, and after a moment, John joins him.

He glances up at Sherlock and grins broadly, and Sherlock can’t help grinning as well. Suddenly, the thought of confessing his undying love to John doesn’t seem as scary as it did a mere moment ago. After all, this is John, his best friend, who has stated his love for Sherlock before. John, who promised him to stay. John won’t desert him if he learns of Sherlock’s chemical defect. He may not be similarly affected, or not to the same degree, but that doesn’t mean that he’s going to pack his bags and leave. After all, it was he who insisted on sharing the bed.

John reaches up to clasp his shoulder, squeezing it warmly for a moment before he sobers up again and removing his hand. “I’m not done with the deduction yet, just so you know, but I think we ought to have dinner first. Or rather, showers and dinner. I’m starving.”

“I approve,” nods Sherlock, before picking up the coat hangers again and fleeing into the bathroom while John, with a last, long glance at him, goes to answer the door.

 

**– <o>–**

 

Fifteen minutes later they sit at the small table in a corner of the room, ensconced on two sides by windows overlooking a dark garden. It’s raining again, drops pattering against the panes. Both men are wrapped in dressing gowns over pants and t-shirts. John’s hair is curling in his nape, as it always does when it’s still partly wet. As always, Sherlock fights down the urge to touch it.

“Mariella asked if we wanted desert, too,” says John round a mouthful of chips and vegetables. “So I ordered the apple-tart with ice-cream for you. Should be here in half an hour.”

“For me?”

“Yeah, because you love cake.”

“Mycroft is the cake person.”

“Haha, sure. Says the man who can eat five scones in a row. Runs in the family, then. Bet Tiffany loves it, too.”

Sherlock smiles, spearing a chip with his fork. “She likes cheese.”

John takes a sip from his tea and frowns. “Cheese? How do you know?”

“Didn’t you smell it? She had cheese in her rucksack. It was stored in a Tupperware box, but the smell was still noticeable. Sussex Blue, I believe.”

“I didn’t notice it.”

“Obviously.”

John throws a chip at him, which Sherlock catches and bites into, making John grin. They eat in silence for a few minutes, before John says. “She’s a pretty remarkable girl. In many ways, she is like I imagine you as a child.”

Sherlock gazes at his plate. “Yes, there are similarities.” He thinks about her words concerning the shepherd. “I thought about running away from home, too. Not because my parents were considering a divorce, but because I felt I didn’t belong. I didn’t believe they understood me, however hard they tried. And they did. Try, I mean. It just ... I always had the feeling that they wanted to fix me somehow because I was broken. All those specialists, all those attempts at making me ... normal, whatever that means. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I know they didn’t mean any harm by it. They thought they were helping me. Only ... I didn’t need that kind of help.”

“What would have helped you?” John wants to know. “Because clearly, you weren’t happy most of the time, were you?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Acceptance. Friendship. I don’t know. They did love me. Still do, despite all the worries I have caused them over the years. I was never the model child, no second Mycroft with his perfect grades and perfect career, borne out of his ability to read people and conform according to their expectations.”

“No, you chose to be a consulting detective instead to do real good in the world and help those who have no other voice to speak for them. Back then, as a child, that’s what you would have needed, right? What Ellie showed you, albeit briefly. Support and friendship, in combination with intellectual challenges and down-to-earth advice based on good common sense and the experience of an unusual life.”

Sherlock smiles wryly and nods. “Those two weeks I spent in Washington and around Chanctonbury Ring were about the best of my life.”

John nods, cleaning his plate with his last piece of haddock. “Will you tell me about them?”

Sherlock eats some more chips, thinking. The last time he tried to tell what happened, his explanations were met with scepticism and disbelief. He was told to grow up, to overcome his childish imaginings. Nobody took him seriously, even those he trusted most. But this is John ...

Sherlock swallows his chips, and reaches for his cup for a long draught of tea. Setting it down into its saucer with a clink, he squares his shoulders and gazes at John across the table. “All right,” he says.

 

**– <o>–**

 

The remainder of tea in his cup (his third) is cold when Sherlock’s account reaches his final day on the Downs and his parting from Jan. John and he have partaken of the cake, although Sherlock hasn’t eaten much of it. Once he started talking, as more and more memories rose to the surface, he found he couldn’t stop, not even for the rather good apple-tart. Similar to when he is explaining his deductions, John is a brilliant audience: attentive, interested, asking few but just the right questions. He’s appreciative, too, and doesn’t hold back his praise for Sherlock’s storytelling skills.

“Wow,” he says, leaning back in his chair and reaching out to empty the dregs from his cup. “That was quite a story. Those two weeks sound like every kid’s dream holiday. I mean, being out and about most of the day, and spending it in such brilliant company ... it must indeed have been bliss. And Ellie ... now I understand why you were so angry at your cousin’s remarks about her. She is a good soul, wise and rather smart. And kind, too.” He looks thoughtful for a moment, staring at the tablecloth, before he focuses on Sherlock again.

“Did you ever see Jan again? Did you go back the next summer?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “I did come back once, later that same year. I looked for him, but he wasn’t there.”

John nods thoughtfully. Sherlock watches him. He thinks he knows what’s going through John’s mind. It’s been on his, too, ever since he started actively remembering the encounter.

“Sherlock,” John begins cautiously.

Sherlock sighs. Rising from the chair, he steps to the window. He opens it to let in a draught of humid air and the smell of freshly mown grass and plane trees from the garden below. He breathes deeply as he gazes out into the darkness. It’s long past midnight, and what houses can be seen beyond the garden are dark. The party downstairs seems to be going on, but since the pub is facing the street and not the garden, music and voices can only be heard as soft background noise. “You can ask, John,” he says quietly.

The scrape of a chair and soft footsteps on the wooden floorboards announce John joining Sherlock. “Ask?” he wonders.

Sherlock lets out a long breath. “You want to ask whether he was real. Jan, I mean.”

He can see John’s reflection in the glass of the open window, but it’s too soft to read his expression. John stands in silence for a while, obviously thinking. Then he looks at Sherlock. “Does it matter?”

The question surprises Sherlock. He turns to John. His face is open and he seems genuinely interested in an answer. “I mean,” he goes on clarifying, “I’m not sure it does. He was real to you, so ... I don’t know. That’s good enough for me, I guess.”

He runs a hand through his hair, then draws his dressing gown a little more tightly around himself. “When you were ... away, I talked to you all the time. Not just at your grave. I had to be careful not to do it in public. Sometimes it happened, and sometimes I cared. Mostly I didn’t. Still, people would look at me oddly sometimes when I talked to you on the Tube or in the supermarket.”

Sherlock swallows. “I talked to you, too. It was one of the few things that kept me sane, kept me going.”

They gaze at each other. The corner of John’s mouth twitches up in a smile. Sherlock feels a tug at his lips as well.

“The Tube and the supermarket? Really, John? Why these places? We used to take cabs most of the time, and I never accompanied you to do the shopping.”

John shrugs. “Yeah, I know. Crazy, isn’t it? Guess we’re both round the bend.”

Sherlock nods. “People would say so, yes.”

“When have we ever cared about ‘people’?”

“You used to. When they assumed things about us.”

John sighs. “Yes, that’s true. But, you know, the problem wasn’t that they assumed we were in a relationship, or that they implied I was gay. That never bothered me, even though the latter isn’t true, strictly speaking.”

“What was the problem, then?”

John stares into the darkness. He is tense, his left hand is clenched into a fist at his side. He is nervous, Sherlock realises. Like himself. His own heart is beating fast.

“The problem was that it wasn’t true,” he hesitates, swallows, and then adds, “and that I wanted it to be.”

Sherlock stares at him. Has he heard this correctly? He blinks a few times. When he speaks, his voice is tentative, the words cautious.

“You ... um ... you were bothered by people assuming we were in a relationship not because I’m a man and you’re not gay, or that I’m ... me, and you didn’t want them to think we were together because of that. It bothered you that they believed we were together when we weren’t, not in a romantic way, at least?” It’s hugely important to clarify this.

John turns his head to look at him, holds his gaze for a moment, then nods.    

Sherlock feels air rush from his lungs. He feels light-headed, then remembers to breathe in again. He blinks a few times.

“Sherlock?” enquires John cautiously.

“Past tense,” croaks Sherlock.

“What?”

“You spoke in past tense. About ... what you said just now. Does that mean you no longer want the relationship thing?”

John shakes his head and Sherlock’s heart squeezes painfully. “No, it doesn’t.”

Sherlock is confused. “What does that mean?”

John smiles softly. “You tell me, genius. How about I continue with my deduction from earlier? That … er … may make things clearer. I hope.”

Sherlock swallows. He feels giddy and horribly out of his depth. He nods ever so slightly. “Okay.”

John licks his lips. “So ... that man you’ve been in love with, and still are. You said he didn’t love you back. Are you certain of that?”

Sherlock searches his face. “I used to be. I am not entirely certain any longer. But, John, please. This is torture. If you know who I mean, then say it. I promise to be honest and tell you if you got it right.”

John gazes up at him, then nods. “It’s me, isn’t it?”

Sherlock closes his eyes. This is it. He has promised. Opening his eyes and returning John’s steady gaze, he nods.

John doesn’t look surprised. He does, however, look sad.

“How long?” he wants to know.

“Unconsciously, since 29th January 2010.”

John’s reaction is a soft curse.

“Consciously, being able to name the feeling for what it was,” continues Sherlock, “since my Fall, and more precisely since your wedding.” He bites his lip and shrugs helplessly. “Bloody awful timing, I know.”

John laughs harshly. “Yes, indeed. Jesus.”

“Sorry.”

“No, no, don’t apologise. Good God, Sherlock, never apologise. I’m the one who should. Because I think I noticed. At the wedding, I mean. After you’d just deduced that Mary was pregnant and you looked at me. You seemed so sad. I think I knew then. But as I said, I was too much of a coward to do anything about it. Worse, I made a bloody awful joke that must have hurt you. And when you insisted I go back to Mary ...” He shrugs, looking utterly miserable.

“What?”

“I thought you had changed you mind, that you didn’t want me anymore.”

“That’s utterly ridiculous, John.”

John smiles wryly. “Yeah, I begin to realise that. Some people take a little longer, you see.”

Sherlock replays some of John’s words and frowns. “John ... may I make a deduction as well?”

“Since when do you ask permission?”

“Well, I thought I’d be polite and considerate for a change.”

Something glints in John’s eyes. The faintest hint of a smile, a warm, genuine one, tugs at the corners of his eyes. “Go on, then.”

Sherlock clears his throat. “Taking into account everything you’ve said recently, in addition to your insistence that we are, in fact, a couple and that you are considering staying at Baker Street indefinitely, sharing quarters with a certain consulting detective, I deduce that you may be in love with said detective, too.”

John’s face splits into a broad, happy smile, like the sun breaking through a bank of clouds. “Amazing.”

Sherlock smiles as well. This is new territory. It’s elating, utterly wonderful. And utterly frightening at the same time. “You think so?”

“Extraordinary, quite extraordinary.”

“That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do people normally say?”

Sherlock swallows and casts down his eyes, his head drooping. “Piss off,” he says quietly. Once more, gentle fingers reach out to lift his chin.

“People are idiots. I thought we’d established that,” John reminds him, before his expression turns grave, too. “Sherlock, I meant what I said, earlier. About me being a selfish arse. I do love you, deeply. I can admit this freely now. And I’m more than touched and delighted that you love me, too. But the thing is, I should have told you ages ago. I shouldn’t have married somebody else, shouldn’t have made you stand by and watch as my Best Man. God, I can only imagine how painful that must have been for you. I’m sorry, Sherlock, I’m so, so sorry. I’ve not treated you right, not the way you deserve. You—”

Sherlock holds up a hand to stop him. “It’s all right, John.”

John shakes his head vehemently. “No, it isn’t. It isn’t. You deserve better. You deserve someone who puts you first, always.”

“But I don’t want anybody else. Never have. You offered me your phone, back in that lab at Barts, and that was it. That was it, John. I hate saying it, but there is no rational explanation for it. It’s a chemical defect. We’re both pretty messed up, defective. But perhaps that’s why we’re still here, against all odds.”

John holds his gaze, before nodding. “Yes, perhaps.” He thinks for a moment before laughing softly. Looking up at Sherlock again, he asks, “What happens now? Where do we go from here?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “How should I know? You’re the expert.”

John runs a hand through his hair. He shakes his head, chuckles softly. Grinning up at Sherlock, he nods towards the bed. “Well, since we have a double, we should make use of it.”

_Oh. Oh right. Does he mean what I think he means? Do I want that? I don’t know what to do? Oh shit, oh shit. I need to look up a few things first. Shit, shit, shit._

“Sherlock? Sherlock, you in there?”

A gentle hand at his shoulder, shaking him. “Sherlock, breathe, okay.”

He sucks in a large gulp of air, and focuses on John again, who is looking at him worriedly.

“Where did you just go? For a moment, I thought you were going to faint. Listen, I was joking about the bed. I didn’t mean to shock or upset you. I’m sorry, I really am. We’ll take this as slow as you like. And if you don’t want anything physical, that’s okay, too.”

Sherlock draws another deep breath. He’s embarrassed by his reaction. “Would it really be okay for you? You like sex. Would you be willing to forgo it indefinitely for my sake?”

John shrugs. “I haven’t had sex since you were shot. I’m still alive. Sure, yes, I do enjoy it. But as your spreadsheet or whatever you’ve devised to document my masturbatory habits in the shower will surely confirm, I can take care of my needs.”

Sherlock studies him, then nods. The statement seems genuine. “I may be willing to ... experiment. In time.” He thinks some more. “Are we officially a couple now?"

John smiles at him. “Yeah, I guess so. Would you be willing to engage in a congratulatory hug?”

Sherlock smiles as well. “I think I would.”

The next moment, he feels John’s arms wrap around him and draw him close. He stiffens for an instant, before, engulfed by the warmth and smell of John, he melts into his smaller frame and snakes his arms round the terry-cloth-clad shoulders. John’s nose touches his clavicles and then slides along the side of his neck, leaving goose-bumps in its wake. Sherlock’s legs feel like jelly. He is grateful for John’s sturdy body to hold onto.

“You beautiful, beautiful man,” John whispers, his voice thick with emotion. Sherlock wonders how he manages to speak at all. He wouldn’t be able to, he knows. His throat is tight, his heart fluttering like a humming bird in his chest. “Please forgive me that I’ve been such an idiot, that it took me so long to tell you that I love you.”

Sherlock only manages a nod as he buries his nose in John’s hair _(used the hotel’s shampoo, faint smell of honey and something woody, likely pine)._ He sniffs. In his arms, John shifts and turns his head to brush his lips against the skin of his neck. A jolt like electricity runs through Sherlock and he trembles.

“Sorry,” mumbles John, drawing back a little.

“It’s all right. Just ... surprising.”

John chuckles against his shoulder. They stand for a while longer before they disentangle. John looks a little embarrassed. He runs his hand through his hair and tugs at the front of his dressing gown.

“It’s late.”

Sherlock nods. He doesn’t feel tired at all, pumped full of adrenaline. But the night air is getting a little cold, and since his legs still feel weak and shaky, lying down may actually be a good idea. Moreover, lying down next to John ... It’s unlikely to help with the adrenaline, but might be unexpectedly pleasant, like the hug.

“Yes,” agrees Sherlock. He glances towards the bed. “You habitually sleep on the right side.”

“How do you know?”

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow at him and John grins. “Of course.” He closes the window and begins to strip off his dressing gown.

Sherlock hesitates. “Anything else I should keep in mind? Any bed-sharing etiquette I may not be aware of?”

John shrugs. “As long as you don’t steal the blanket, we’re fine. I should warn you, though. I may have a nightmare, which could be unpleasant for you. Sometimes, I lash out unconsciously. So apologies in advance should I wake you. I hope I won’t hit you or something. Just wake me should you notice anything unusual.”

Sherlock decides not to tell him about his night-time vigils at his bed when the nightmares were bad. “You do the same, please,” he says.

They take turns in the bathroom to use the toilet and brush their teeth. A short while later, Sherlock climbs into the bed next to John and stretches out on his back, his hands folded over his chest because he doesn’t know what else to do with them. It feels surreal to lie this close to the other. John shifts onto his side, and Sherlock can feel his eyes on him.

“Relax, Sherlock,” he murmurs.

Sherlock snorts. “Easier said than done.”

A tentative hand sneaks out to brush a curl from his forehead, to then wander into his hair and continue brushing. Normally, Sherlock hates when people fuss with his hair. But this tender, repetitive motion is surprisingly soothing and comforting. He feels the tension in his body ease and his hammering heart calm.

“Good night, love,” says John softly.

“Good night,” replies Sherlock, his heart melting at the endearment. It’s ridiculously sentimental. Sherlock feels he should loathe it. He is surprised to find that he doesn’t. John’s hand withdraws. Turning his head, Sherlock sees John smile at him before closing his eyes and settling more comfortably. Not long after, his breathing has slowed to the slow, regular one of sleep.

Carefully, Sherlock shifts so that he can watch him. His thoughts and feelings, his memories and new impressions are all jumbled together, and he doesn’t know where to begin to try to disentangle them. Normally, this state of chaos would be unbearable. But right now, his heart and mind overwhelmed by sentiment, he finds he doesn’t care. So he simply lies and watches, committing every line and scar and freckle of John’s face to memory.

 

**– <o>–**

 

_November 1987_

“Can’t we go any faster?” asks Sherlock. Outside, the Sussex landscape is rushing past under a grey, overcast sky.

“Sherlock, mummy is already driving as fast as it’s allowed,” his father reminds him from the passenger seat.

Sherlock sinks back into his seat and tugs at the seatbelt at his throat. “It’s already three o’clock. You said we’d be there by two.”

“It’s not far now, dear,” says Mummy. She casts a quick glance over her shoulder at him. “I have to say I’m actually a bit surprised by your eagerness to visit your cousins. I thought you didn’t like them. Didn’t you implore us not to leave you with Daniel and Christopher this summer?”

Sherlock hasn’t told anybody where he really spent those two weeks, and doesn’t intend to. “It turned out to be all right,” he mutters.

Father turns in his seat to gaze at him. Sherlock pretends to look out of the window. Sometimes, he has the distinct feeling that Father can tell very well when he’s treating the truth a little too obliquely. But Father never gives him away, even when he catches him with an outright lie. He just gives him one of his looks, long and steady and slightly worried and sad. In most cases, Sherlock ends up confessing his misdeeds, if only to see Father’s approval and wipe the sadness off his face.

He hasn’t told anybody of his plan for today, though. It’s Christopher’s birthday. As usual, the Holmes family received an invitation. Last year, they didn’t go because Christopher was ill. But this year, his birthday is on a Saturday, meaning Sherlock doesn’t even have the excuse of school to not go. And he wants to go. At least to Washington. Ever since the summer holidays, he has been waiting for an opportunity to come back, and has actually tried to persuade his parents on several occasions to visit the Warringtons. His efforts were thwarted by his parents’ work commitments, school, and a major storm. But now here they are.

He’s excited and anxious in equal measure. There are so many things that can go wrong. He feared illness, work, the weather, and his cousin’s outright refusal to have him around. But so far, everything has worked out well. They have reached the outskirts of Washington now. The weather is dull and grey and cold, the sky overcast with the Downs hidden in fog, but it’s neither raining nor is there a storm blowing. Now Sherlock only has to live through tea with the Warringtons and possibly endure a minimum of interaction with his cousins and whatever guests Christopher invited, and then, if he seizes the right moment, he’ll be free.

He has packed for a day on the Downs, and has equipped himself with warm clothes and sturdy shoes, a thermos and some food. He has also created a gift for Jan: during art lessons at school, he made a small dog out of clay. Wrapped in a scarf that he once got from Mycroft, the present is securely stowed in the depths of his rucksack. He has also brought a small gift for Ellie – a book about dogs he found at a second hand bookstore on Charing Cross Road. He hopes he’ll manage to visit her, too.

“Well, here we are,” announces Mummy. She parks the car opposite the house and all three get out.

“Can I quickly go and say hello to Ellie, please?” begs Sherlock.

“Ellie is the neighbour who you helped around the house, right?” Mummy wants to know.

Sherlock nods. “I borrowed a book from her last time and would like to give it back. Won’t be long.”

He rummages in his rucksack and holds up the book.

Father gives him another of his looks, but Sherlock ignores it. Mummy sighs and nods. “Don’t take too long. I’ve made a special cake for Christopher. Surely you’d want to be there when he cuts it.”

“I’ve seen it already,” says Sherlock, and grabbing his rucksack, dashes off towards Ellie’s house. He knocks on the front door and waits. Nothing happens. He knocks again, before stepping over to the living room window to gaze inside. What he can see of the room behind the curtains is dark. Despite the gloomy weather, no lights are on, nor is any glow of the television visible. Sherlock sighs. Returning to the front door, he opens the letterbox to gaze through. The hall is dark, too.

For a moment, he considers that Ellie may be at her neighbours’, but he decides that this would be unusual. They’re not so friendly that she would have been invited to Christopher’s birthday. Interestingly, he can’t smell any scones or cake when he takes a sniff of air through the letterbox. Had she baked something for today, the smell would have lingered in the corridor. When she baked the scones for Daniel’s birthday, most of her house smelled of them for more than a day. Apparently she is out, then. Sherlock is disappointed. He would have liked to meet her again, despite having other plans for the rest of the day.

Fetching a pencil from his rucksack, he writes a short note into the dog book and carefully pushes it through the letterbox. It lands on what sounds like a pile of papers instead of the soft carpet the floor of the hall is covered with. _Ah, so apparently she has been gone for several days. Ah well, bad luck._

But at least he’s out and about. He glances over to his cousins’ house. His parents have gone inside. Upstairs in Daniel’s room, he sees a curtain twitch. Someone has spotted him. He thinks for a moment. If he goes inside now, chances are that he won’t manage to leave again. Even though his parents are there, they don’t usually interfere with the children playing, and so won’t realise if their youngest ends up spending the afternoon locked inside a wardrobe or a sea chest. No, Sherlock feels he must seize his chance at freedom now.

Flipping the two-fingered salute towards the window, he dashes past the front of Ellie’s house into her back garden. The kitchen window is dark, too. One of her apple-trees has been damaged in the storm. A large branch has broken off, which saddens Sherlock. Ellie had told him all about this particular sort of apples and said they tasted faintly of pineapple.

Seeing the damaged tree deals a stab of worry to Sherlock’s heart. Last month’s storm has caused so much damage all over the country. It’s another reason he wanted to come to Washington so badly. He needs to see that ‘their’ trees, his and Jan’s, are all right. He needs to see that Jan is all right, he and Lightning and his sheep. Shouldering the rucksack, Sherlock leaves Ellie’s garden by the back door in the hedge and sets out towards Chanctonbury Ring.

 

**– <o>–**

 

The fog gets denser the higher he climbs. He is glad he knows the way by heart, otherwise he is sure he would have taken a wrong turn. Taking his usual route up the western side of the Down, soon he feels hot and sweaty. The air is cold but very humid, the moisture almost palatable. His nose is running almost continuously, so that soon, he runs out of tissues. Combined with the exercise, Sherlock soon feels sweat drip into the collar of his jumper from the tips of his hair. His curls, wet and limp, hang into his eyes. When he has climbed about half the hill, he stops to take off his duffle-coat and strap it on top of his rucksack.

When finally he steps out of the forest, he can barely see the flinty path following the ridge. Moisture beads in silver droplets in the short turf. Here and there shadows can be made out which he assumes are clumps of bushes and small trees. He can feel a faint breeze, but it’s nothing like the wind whistling over the turf he remembers from his visits in summer. The place seems frozen in milky jelly, unmoving, devoid of all life but for Sherlock.

Sheep have been here recently, though. He sees their droppings on the grass, and here and there a hoof-print on a muddy patch. Also, their smell lingers, adding a welcome shred of familiarity. Sherlock is nervous. With the fog this dense, what are the chances that Jan will be here today? The weather is very uncomfortable. Nobody in their right mind is going to spend more time outside than they strictly have to. And where are the sheep, anyway? With their thick, fatty coats, neither cold nor humidity should be troubling them.

Sherlock fights down his worries and continues. When the path levels slightly near the cross-roads, the wind picks up. Sherlock puts on his coat again, shivering slightly in his damp jumper. He should reach the gate and fence and the dew pond soon. They must be close, he estimates. Only he can’t see them because of the fog.

He walks on, and on. The path seems to continue indefinitely, bordered by hedges. Is this really the correct track, Sherlock begins to wonder. Has he taken a wrong turn further down? He can’t see any landmarks, nothing that seems even vaguely familiar.

He is seriously considering to head back and check at the cross-roads when he sees something loom up ahead. It turns out to be the gate. Sherlock sighs with relief and hurries towards it. Next to the gate is the familiar slope of the dew pond. He is on the right track, then. He leaves the path to go and look at the pond. It’s more full than in the summer, but looks dead and bleak, too, the reeds brown and broken and partly submerged. Sherlock heads down to the water, the surface of which is still, untroubled by pondskaters. Sherlock wonders if the newt is still there. Don’t they hibernate on dry land?

Because there isn’t much to see at the pond, Sherlock leaves it again soon. For a moment he considers returning to the path, but then decides to follow the narrow sheep-trail winding along the crest of the ridge towards the stone marker. Walking slowly over the wet grass, he almost misses the stone because the fog is even more dense on top of the ridge. He halts next to the marker, gazing in the general direction of Chanctonbury Ring. He can’t see it, only milky white soup.

With a sigh, he draws his duffle-coat more tightly around himself. He should have brought a hat. The coat’s hood doesn’t really suffice at keeping out the icy fingers of the wind. Even though it has picked up yet again, the fog remains persistent. Sherlock feels disappointed, and increasingly anxious. How on earth is he supposed to find Jan in this soup? Even calling doesn’t seem an option. The fog seems to swallow all sound, leaving Sherlock in a world of cold, white silence.

He fetches his thermos from his rucksack and carefully drinks some of the tea he’s brought, cradling the cup with trembling hands. He thinks about putting on the scarf that’s currently cushioning the clay dog, but leaves it in the bag, lest his gift be damaged. Then, packing up his things again, he continues in what he hopes is the right direction. The longer he walks, following the ridge, the greater his anxiety grows. He should have reached the trees ages ago. Where are they? He’s already passed the hawthorn bush next to the path, the half-way point from the marker to the henge. And here is the Bronze Age tumulus Jan showed him in the summer, telling him about the people who were buried here long ago. The Ring must be close.

Finally, a dark mass looms up ahead. Sherlock breathes a sigh of relief. He increases his pace until he is almost running. The trees. There they are. He’s finally home.

He skids to a halt when he reaches the dyke – or what is left of it. Something has dug into the turfy walls, torn them open, revealing their chalky, flinty innards. Heavy machinery has left deep, jagged tracks in the ground. They look like imprints of tractor wheels. In places, the turf is criss-crossed by them, and there are marks as of heavy things being dragged over the soft ground

Stepping closer, his eyes large with utter shock, Sherlock sees even worse destruction. He gasps in horror. The trees. They are gone. Most of them, at least. Near the southern border of the henge, a few are left standing, like lonely sentinels watching over the chaos that is all which is left of the splendour of Chanctonbury Ring.

Inside the dyke, Sherlock can see a mass of branches and trunks and tangled roots, and earth torn open like craters, or wounds in an animal’s hide. It looks like a bomb has exploded in the middle of the henge and has flattened the trees, tearing up their roots and splintering branches or even trunks. Not even those who survived the blast are left undamaged. They have lost branches, some have deep wounds in their crowns where parts have simply been torn off and swept away.

Sherlock becomes aware that he is hyperventilating. Something cold and hard has settled in his chest and is squeezing it with icy fingers. The trees have been here for hundreds of years, and now they’re gone forever. Tears begin to prick at the corners of his eyes as he begins to scramble up the dyke for a better view. He notices that the tractor tracks were apparently caused by people beginning to cut up the fallen trees and drag them away. Some of the trunks show traces of chainsaws.

Sherlock scuffs at his eyes. He is crying in earnest now, his nose is running. He wipes it on his sleeve. _The storm,_ echoes through his mind. _It was the storm._ A sob breaks from his chest. He knew about the storm, of course. It was impossible to miss, the way it howled and screeched outside his window last month. School was cancelled the next day. He’d seen the destruction on the news and in the neighbourhood. But somehow, he had not considered what a cyclone like that might do to this woodland, exposed and unsheltered on a high ridge. The trees on the north-western side of the grove must have been hit with the full brunt of the storm, and so protected their brethren further south. But so many, so many of them have been torn up. Couldn’t one or two have fallen and the rest been spared?

Sherlock digs in his pockets for a handkerchief to blow his nose. His shock has been replaced by deep sadness. This place bears no longer any resemblance with the sunlit grove he spent so many wonderful days in the summer. That place, Sherlock realises with a pang, only exists in his memory now. Tears threaten to well up again. He must make sure he never forgets the summer-henge as it was. Never.

_No need for letters. Be here always. You come back, find me under trees._

Jan’s words echo through his mind. Sherlock cries out in shock and grief. If to him the loss of the trees is painful, how much worse must it be for Jan? Jan, who more or less indicated that he lives here. He must be utterly heartbroken. Or even ... Oh God no, the thought is too horrible to contemplate. What if he was up here during the day the Storm struck? What if he was here, looking after the sheep like always? He knew about the weather, could forecast it pretty well. He must have seen the dark clouds racing up from the West, right? What did he do? Where did he live? He would have brought his sheep to safety first. Would he have lead them under the trees, believing that the storm was just another autumn gale bringing rain and a bit of a stiff breeze to rid the beeches of their last leaves?

Cold, desperate fear grips Sherlock’s heart. What if he sheltered here with his sheep when the cyclone struck? Sherlock looks at the mess of tangled, broken trees. Nobody would survive in this. He strips off his heavy rucksack and lets it drop where he stands, before leaping down the dyke into the mess below. Against common sense but with a sliver of hope that Jan may be around as he promised in the summer, Sherlock begins to cry out his friend’s name. His voice rents through the mist, sounding high-pitched and desperate even to his ears.

He doesn’t know how long he searches, climbing over fallen trees and stumbling into the holes torn by their roots when they fell over. He twists his ankle when he slips on a wet branch, but he doesn’t care, finding himself a sturdy branch as a crutch and limping on. He calls and calls until he is hoarse, and searches and searches and searches. When, near the eastern edge of the henge, he finds the remains of two dead sheep half-buried under a fallen tree, he almost vomits from the shock.

Curiosity wins over, and after a moment of leaning against the splintered trunk to recover, he returns to them to examine them more closely. They have decayed considerably despite the cold weather. Crows have picked away most of the flesh wherever they could reach. Of one of the carcasses, little but the coat, skin, bones and sinews are left.

The tractor people began removing the fallen trees on the other side of the henge, and likely the farmers are keeping their surviving sheep away from the place now so as not to hinder the works. But if Jan was here during the Storm and something befell him, wouldn’t his family have started looking for him? He said he had a brother. He must have been missed at home if he didn’t return. People would have worried.

 _Unless he wasn’t real, of course_ , a nasty little voice in Sherlock’s head pipes up. He knows it, even though he tries to ignore it as best he can. But it always seems to gain strength and importance when he is feeling sad and lonely. It tells him that he hasn’t got any friends, that he is a freak nobody wants to spend time with, that he is unworthy of love and affection – and of course that the only friend he’s ever had apart from his dog was nothing but a figment of his own imagination. That’s how sad and pathetic he is.

“Shut up,” Sherlock tells it fiercely now. “He was real. He was my friend. He _is_ my friend. He is fine, just you see. He’d know what to do in a storm. He’d know.”

With renewed vigour he continues his search. The wind begins to rent the fog into tatters, which drift past like wraiths. The light begins to fail, but still Sherlock calls out and searches, increasingly desperate, and increasingly hopeless. The final blow comes in the middle of the grove. Here the tangled mess is greatest and most dangerous, with trees still half-leaning against others amidst splintered branches and torn up trunks. Sherlock is close to tears again when he recognises certain trees. The one that Jan loved to climb hasn’t survived the Storm. Its roots have torn up a crater of flinty earth.

Sherlock’s foot is hurting quite badly now, and he sinks down onto the wet, leaf-and-twig-strewn ground, huddling down against the cold and the grief. Then his eyes fall on what looks like a small box half buried under old leaves and snagged roots. With trembling hands, he reaches out and retrieves it. Brushing leaves and earth off it, he stares at it. It’s his small chess-set, then one he gave to Jan as a parting gift. _No, you didn’t,_ says the ugly voice. _You left it here. You just told yourself you gave it to your ’friend’ because that’s how pathetic you are._

“He was real,” Sherlock sobs, lying down and cradling the chess-set. “He was real.”

Burying his face in his hands, he begins to weep in earnest. “Please come back. Please, Jan, please come back,” he wails, over and over again. “I’m here. I’ve returned. Please, don’t leave me here alone. Please, Jan. Come back. Come back, Jan. Please.”

He doesn’t know how long he lies there. His voice is turning more and more hoarse, until it’s nothing more than a soft, miserable squeal. He knows he must get up, that lying on the cold and wet ground is dangerous. He knows that he must return now, before it’s altogether dark. But he doesn’t heed these small voices of reason. He is utterly heartbroken. This is worse than what happened with Redbeard. He doesn’t want to get up again. Nobody wants him anyway. So he might as well stay here.

Suddenly, however, he feels the lightest of touches on his shoulder.

“Sherlock?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I managed to finish both illustrations in time, yay:


	6. The Gift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it. It took me a bit longer to write this story than I'd anticipated. Huge thanks to everybody who followed it and left kudos and comments, and particularly to rifleman_s for brilliant beta-services. I have plans for a sequel (a case-fic set in the Lake District) that will shed more light on John's issues and also follow the boys' developing relationship. But first I'd like to finish [_Enigma_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1991325/chapters/4313418) – my apologies to all whom I've kept waiting for an update while writing _The Summer Boy_.

_July 2016_

“Sherlock?”

“Sherlock, wake up. You’re having a nightmare. Wake up.”

The touch on his shoulder tightens, becomes more tangible, more real. With a ragged breath, Sherlock surfaces out of a tangle of bed sheets and blanket. For a moment, he doesn’t know where he is. It’s dark around him, warm bordering on hot which strikes him as odd. Just now, he was freezing, shivering in the grey damp of the destroyed tree-henge. But the smell of wet, torn up earth and splintered wood has been replaced by that of sweat, toothpaste, laundry detergent and honey-pine shampoo.

“Sherlock, you’re in a hotel in Sussex,” a calm voice tells him, the hand at his shoulder anchoring him further in the present. “And I’m here. Okay? I’m here. You were calling for me, I think. Or your friend, Jan. I can’t be entirely sure. Here, try to sit up. You’re all tangled up in the sheets.”

Sherlock stares at John wildly, his chest heaving with panting breaths. He reaches up with a trembling hand to brush sweaty curls from his forehead.

“John,” he rasps, his voice hoarse. Slowly, reality overwrites the last vestiges of his dream. The feeling of wet leaves and twigs is replaced by that of good quality cotton sheets and the soft, well-worn t-shirt on his torso. His throat aches, he is terribly thirsty. God, he must have shouted loud enough to wake the entire hotel if his voice is this hoarse now. He swallows convulsively, then coughs.

John’s hand wanders up to his neck to cup his cheek, hesitantly as if he isn’t quite sure he is allowed to touch. The hand stays when Sherlock unconsciously leans into it, relishing the contact. John is here. He is real. He hasn’t left. He won’t leave. He promised.

“Yes, I’m here,” he confirms, as if reading Sherlock’s thoughts.

Sherlock exhales raggedly, his shoulders sagging as the wave of adrenaline that has kept him at high alert and in considerable distress ebbs and fades. He swallows against the dryness in his throat, swallows again. John notices.

“Let me get you some water, okay?” He withdraws his hand. Immediately – and involuntarily – Sherlock tenses again. John runs his hand through his curls in a soothing gesture. “I’ll be back in a moment,” he murmurs and slips out of bed to pad over to the table where two bottles of water are standing. He fetches one and returns, unscrewing it and handing it to Sherlock.

“Here.” The mattress dips as he slides into bed again. Sherlock drinks, carefully at first, then more deeply. The cool water is a balm for his sore throat, and moreover, feeling it run into his stomach, his sense of reality becomes stronger, the dream fading more and more. His stomach gives a rumble, for a moment Sherlock feels queasy as if he’s about to be sick. The sensation fades when he closes his eyes and breathes deeply a few times.

“Feeling better?” enquires John with quiet concern.

Sherlock nods, handing back the bottle. John takes a sip himself, then screws it shut and places it on the bedside table. “Want me to switch the light on?”

Sherlock shakes his head, sitting up straighter and beginning to untangle the sheet snaked round his legs and lower torso. “No, I prefer the darkness.”

Now that he has composed himself a little and has begun to take stock of his state, he feels embarrassment well up in him. His cheeks are wet, his eyes gritty. He must have cried. Judging from how the t-shirt clings to his sweat-soaked body and the way his curls are plastered to his head in places and sticking up in others, he must look completely dishevelled. Pathetic. Feeling John’s eyes on him, despite the relative darkness, he hangs his head, averting his face while trying to smooth down his wild hair again and clean his face with a corner of his shirt.

“Sorry for waking you,” he mutters, sniffing and wiping his nose on the back of his hand. “Guess I should have warned you. About the potential danger of having a nightmare, I mean.”

“It’s okay, don’t worry. Here.”

A tissue brushes his neck and he grabs it to blow his nose and wipe his eyes.

“Do you want to talk about your dream? It helps, sometimes.”

Sherlock shrugs and continues to strip away the sheets around him. The cool draught of air touching his bare legs is welcome. “Not particularly.”

On shaky legs, he stands next to the bed to tuck in the sheet again and rearrange the duvet. He stoops to pick up one of his pillows from where it has landed on the floor several feet away. Has he flung it across the room? John is sitting on his side of the bed, his pillows propping up his back, the blanket loosely arranged over his lap. He is watching Sherlock intently, obviously looking for signs of lingering distress.

For a moment, Sherlock stands next to the bed, looking down at John. John gazes at him expectantly, raising an eyebrow and then lifting the duvet in invitation. “Come on, get in again. Quite a marvel that you didn’t pull down the hangings as well in your redecorating spree.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, the corners of his mouth twitching involuntarily. “Yes, well, I was saving that for when it’s light again.”

“Yeah, thought so,” quips John. He yawns. “It’s only ten past four. The first birds are only just beginning to sing, now that the nightingale is finally quiet.”

“You didn’t like the nightingale?” asks Sherlock when gingerly, he slips under the covers again, lying stiffly next to John.

“It was all right, quite nice, actually, but bloody loud. I mean, I could still hear it clearly through the shut windows. And they’re double-glazed. London traffic doesn’t usually keep me awake or wake me up, not even when an ambulance rushes past on Marylebone Road. But perhaps I’m just used to it.”

“You were asleep almost immediately after settling down,” Sherlock observes.

John lies down again, too, arranging the blanket over both of them and smoothing it down. “Yes, I was.   But I lay awake for almost half an hour while you were having your nightmare.” Sherlock hears him swallow. “I wasn’t sure whether to wake you. You seemed in great distress, crying and calling out, and burrowing into the sheets.”

“Sorry. I haven’t had a dream like this for a while. I hope I didn’t hit you.”

“No, you didn’t get violent. You just moved around a bit as if running or looking for something. And then you began to call out, rolled into a tight ball trembling all over, and started to cry.”

Sherlock bites his lip. He is embarrassed. He’s never had any feedback on the outward appearance of his nightmares before, and is quite shocked. But John has turned his head and is watching him with quiet concern, his eyes glinting faintly in the dim light. Sherlock can’t discern any judgement in his expression, only pity and understanding.

Sherlock exhales, staring up at the dark canopy of the bed. John is worried and curious and yet reluctant to dig further. Sherlock doesn’t want to recall his nightmare by talking about it, but perhaps John is right. Maybe he should try to put it into words. After all, he knows what fed the dream, igniting deeply buried memories that made him relive a traumatic event from his childhood in this intense, disturbing fashion.

He takes a deep breath and begins to talk. He tells John about his November visit to Chanctonbury Ring, after the Storm. He recounts his discovery of the destruction, and his desperate search for his friend. His throat is tight and tears are pricking at the corners of his eyes by the time he has reached his final breakdown, describing how he lay on the ground cradling the small chess-set to him, overcome by despair and a sense of desertion. Next to him, he feels John move. He hears the rustle of cloth and then another tissue brushes across his hand. A moment later, John’s hand his running softly through his curls. It’s soothing, and Sherlock feels himself push into the touch. John shifts, his other arm snakes under Sherlock’s head and he pulls him close, nudging Sherlock until he rolls onto his side and buries his face in the soft fabric of John’s t-shirt with its faded print _(Barts logo, silk screen)_.

Inhaling deeply, he feels himself settling, John’s familiar scent soothing and comforting. John’s right hand has moved into his hair now while his left his hovering over Sherlock’s cheek, hesitant for a moment until it brushes over the skin with the lightest of touches. Sherlock lets out a ragged exhale and scoots closer, his own hand snaking up to John’s side and holding on to his shirt. His heart feels strange: heavy with grief, but light at the same time. This is the most intimate he’s been with another person for a very long time. Nobody’s held him like this since ... well, since they found him among the devastated trees and carried him home. Afterwards, he didn’t allow anybody close to him, and the few times he hugged people such as Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade, or, on one notable occasion, John, those embraces were brief. Not since childhood has he curled up next to somebody and held on to them for dear life, actively seeking comfort with another human being.

And he’s missed it. He never allowed himself to admit it, not even to himself, but he craves this kind of closeness, both physical and emotional. Perhaps, he reflects now, he’s always been afraid that if he cast open that particular gate, he’d never be able to close it again, that once he indulged in intimacy, his addictive personality would make him crave it more and more, crave it even when people rejected him, unwilling to fulfil his desire because of the way he is. It seemed better not to invite their scorn. So to prevent getting hurt, he rejected them, never allowing himself to get close to anybody, holding them at arm’s length. Some people slipped through, though, John foremost. Magnussen was right about him, of course. He’s Sherlock’s pressure point, his weak spot, the exception to the rules he set for himself long ago.

So perhaps he should stop fretting and simply allow himself to enjoy having John so close for the first time ever. A part of Sherlock wants to start cataloguing John’s bodily reactions and his own, wants to proceed scientifically with this. So much new information is waiting to be recorded, stored and analysed. He could fill an entire new wing in his mind palace with intimate details about John Watson.

Another part chides him for even considering it. This is not about science for once, but sentiment. It’s not even about sex. Sherlock doesn’t think he cares much for intercourse – his data is somewhat incomplete for lack of having actually tried out the partnered version – but this, just lying here in John’s arms, being close to him, inhaling his scent and having his hair stroked, it’s bliss, of a degree he hasn’t anticipated. He feels safe, and cherished, and accepted for how he is, not just the brilliant mind, the freak who can look at a crime-scene and deduce a story out of what he observes. No, here he lies, weeping like a child _– oh, when did that start? Interesting –,_ overcome by sentiment and grief and regret, and it’s scary and embarrassing, and yet he’s never felt more loved in his life. Loved simply for who he is, Sherlock Holmes, human being, weak and pathetic and emotional and a bit gross with all the bodily fluids he’s currently leaking onto John’s t-shirt. He sobs and holds John more tightly, and feels lips press softly into his hair while John’s hand wanders down to his back and begins to rub it gently.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you,” whispers John. “I’ve got you, and I won’t let you go again.”

“I’m ruining your t-shirt,” mutters Sherlock, his voice muffled by the cloth. He feels John shrug.

“We’ll just switch, then. You can wear my snot-covered one, and I’ll have your nice clean and dry one. Actually, I think that’s a brilliant idea, since you t-shirt is going to smell of you, which will be a nice bonus.”

Sherlock snorts. “Very funny.”

“Yeah, well, I thought I’d make a stab at humour to lift the mood.”

“No need. I’ll be all right. I should pull myself together and stop blubbering before you actually try to crack a joke.”

John laughs softly. “Yeah, perhaps you should. One of my co-workers at the surgery told me a good one recently.”

“Spare me, please.”

“Okay, no joke, then.” John’s right hand continues to run up and down Sherlock’s spine, while the other has come to rest on his shoulder. “You’re really okay?”

“Yes. Sorry about the mess.”

“Could you do me a favour and stop apologising all the time. It’s so unlike you, and actually scares me a bit.”

“Sor— Fine.”

“Thanks.”

They lie in silence for a while. Sherlock gradually calms down and relaxes against John. His senses shift from taking stock of his own grief to the way they are arranged now. He can’t help it. It’s how he works. He can hear John’s heartbeat, strong and steady, under his ear. John’s stomach gurgles softly, digesting the fish and chips, obviously, and Sherlock feels it under his cheek. It makes him smile. Shifting slightly, he feels one of John’s naked legs brush against his own. The contact sends an unexpected but not entirely unwelcome jolt of heat through his body. He moves his leg some more, slipping it between John’s, and feels an answering tension in John’s body. John’s heartbeat picks up. Interesting. Apparently he not the only one affected by their positions. John sighs and draws him closer, his right hand coming to rest in the small of Sherlock’s back, just short of touching his skin where the hem of his t-shirt has ridden up a little.

“I’ve never shared a bed with another bloke,” he says thoughtfully.

“Neither have I,” replies Sherlock. After a moment’s thinking, he asks, “Do you like it?”

John chuckles. “Yes, I do. I was a bit worried you’d be all sharp bones, ribs and knees and elbows, but you’re surprisingly comfortable and soft in places – you still need feeding up, though, just so you know. And your legs aren’t as bristly as I feared.”

Now it’s Sherlock’s turn to laugh softly. “You’re not too bad, either. As a pillow, I mean. I like this.” Playfully, he squeezes John’s side, making him twitch and giggle.

“You’re ticklish?”

“Afraid so.”

Sherlock absorbs this new information. There are so many things that despite years of astute observation and meticulous profiling in his mind palace, he simply doesn’t know about John. He’s never really seen his bullet scar, for example, nor of course has he been allowed to touch it. He didn’t know about the ticklishness. In fact, a long list of intimate details are still blank spaces in his mental construct of John. And it seems that now, finally, he is allowed to investigate, might even be welcome to. Suddenly, the idea of physical intimacy, even sex, takes on an entire new dimension. It’s no longer as scary and off-putting as it used to be. Now, his fear and reluctance are getting entrenched from all sides by forceful, overwhelming curiosity, emboldened by the wish to learn all there is to learn about John. Also, he no longer minds revealing pieces of himself in the process. Sherlock sighs happily and rubs his face against John’s chest.

John laughs again. “Good news, then?”

“Yes. I like that you’re ticklish.”

“Oh dear. You’re going to use it against me, aren’t you?”

Sherlock smirks against his t-shirt. “I might. When the occasion arises.”

John stabs his side, making Sherlock gasp and wriggle. In shock, he gazes up into John’s broadly grinning face.

“Well, good luck with that, mate.”

Sherlock considers starting a tickle fight, surprising himself with the idea. He, Sherlock Holmes, man of reason and rational thought, engaging in something as silly as a tickle fight? Preposterous. Fascinating. John clears his throat.

“Don’t even think about it,” he warns. “You’ll lose.”

“Is that so?”

“Oh yes. I know all the good moves.”

Sherlock scoffs. “Unfair. I’ll have to practise, then.”

“With whom?”

 _Ah, yes, this is a minor complication._ “I’ll find someone.”

“Oh, right. Are you going to advertise online, then? ‘Tickle Trainer Needed Urgently. If Qualified, Enquire at 221B Baker Street’?”

The remark earns John a stab in his side, eliciting a surprised squeak that makes Sherlock laugh out loud because it sounds utterly silly. “I may actually manage on my own, don’t you think?”

“You stand no chance,” growls John, and moves in to retaliate. In the resulting scuffle both sides land blows, rolling over each other and getting twisted up in the blanket until John manages to wrestle a giggling Sherlock onto his back and pin him there with his body weight, holding his arms down next to his sides. Both are breathing hard in between fits of laughter. This isn’t just due to exertion in John’s case, Sherlock notices when he takes stock of their positions: their heaving chests pressed against each other, their naked legs intertwined, something hard and warm pressing against Sherlock’s belly.

John is aroused. The realisation sends a jolt of something hot and fiery through Sherlock’s body. This is ... well, not entirely unexpected. It was bound to happen, wasn’t it? The physical closeness, virtually rubbing against one another. The exertion, the happy laughter. On one occasion, John buried his face in Sherlock’s neck and laughed and laughed until Sherlock relented his attacks to grant him time to catch his breath. John seems happy, in a way Sherlock hasn’t seen him in years. He is relaxed and carefree and positively mischievous. Sherlock loves him fiercely, and is proud to have contributed to John’s state, both the mirth and the arousal.

Still, it comes as mild surprise to suddenly feel proof of John’s actual desire. It shouldn’t, Sherlock knows. John is a sexual creature, and he has admitted to having had encounters with men as well (although Sherlock wonders about his statement of never having shared a bed with one – did they have sex standing up then, or what?). Likely, he is bisexual. And he has admitted to loving Sherlock. Desiring him, too, apparently, despite promising to respect his own wishes, even if those mean they won’t ever consummate their relationship physically.

This is new territory for Sherlock. He is touched and hugely flattered. Something like this is unprecedented. He has been the object of lewd stares and remarks before, and has experienced attempts at wooing or seducing him. Mostly, however, these attempts were based on ulterior motives. He doesn’t consider himself particularly attractive and until lately, has seen himself as quite unlovable. But he knows how to appear charming enough to manipulate people in thinking he is more desirable than he truly is. As long as the glamour only has to hold for a while, it works like a treat. He can trick witnesses into relinquishing information, police officers into providing him with classified information and material, or Molly Hooper into giving him body parts (although she seems to have built a strong resistance against these tactics lately, meaning he mostly resorts to just asking her nicely or even begging, or buying her the odd book or film).

But feeling someone desire him because they love the man behind the façade is new, and it’s heady and frightening and altogether wonderful. He closes his eyes for a moment and breathes deeply, relishing the feeling of John’s strong, toned body pressed against him (oh yes, the cycling has been a brilliant idea despite the danger it poses for John), the brush of his legs against his own, the feel of his breath on his face as he looks down at Sherlock, smiling fondly, his cheeks flushed and his eyes bright.

“Not bad, Sherlock,” he says, “for a beginner. If you want, I’ll tutor you in the future.”

“Oh really? How nice of you,” returns Sherlock with mock archness.

John grins. “Isn’t it? But a promising student like you, it’d be a waste to not teach you the finer secrets of the craft.”

“Will this mean regular training sessions?”

“Most assuredly. Must make certain you really do get enough exercise.”

They look at each other. Sherlock assumes they’re not just talking about the tickling. His throat feels tight, and he swallows. “All right,” he says quietly.

John smiles at him. He releases Sherlock’s hands to run one his along Sherlock’s cheek. “Good.”

Leaning down, John presses a soft, chaste kiss to the tip of his nose, then he rolls to the side. Immediately, Sherlock mourns the loss of warmth and ... well, John. John sits up and swings his legs over the side. “Be back in a moment,” he mutters and sets out in the direction of the bathroom.

Sherlock lies back, breathing deeply, gazing unseeingly at the patterned canopy. Outside, the birds are warbling loudly now. Somewhere in the village, a cock is crowing. The first faint light of dawn is finding its way under the canopy of the bed. He realises he is smiling like an idiot and even humming softly to himself, like his Father when he’s content. Mummy always rolls her eyes when he does that, and in the past, Sherlock thought it silly and a bit embarrassing. Now, he doesn’t mind. If his father feels happy enough to hum in the future, he’s welcome.

The toilet flushes, and a short while later, John returns, drying his hands on his t-shirt. Sherlock feels entitled to ogle him as he walks over to the bed. The cycling has done wonders to his legs. Sherlock approves.

John notices his interest and grins. “Like what you see?”

“Quite, yes.”

“Good.”

John joins him in bed again, lies down on his back and holds out his arm. Sherlock cocks an eyebrow at him, but then dutifully arranges himself on his side, resuming his position from before their tickle fight and resting his head on John’s chest.

They lie quietly for a while, John’s hand playing idly with Sherlock’s hair, and Sherlock following the lines of the Barts Hospital logo on John’s t-shirt. At length, John stirs. “What happened after you’d lain down amidst the ruin of the tree-ring? Did anybody find you? Did your friend come?”

Sherlock draws a deep breath and sighs. “Jan didn’t come. I never saw him again. Perhaps he really was only a figment of my imagination.”

“But how can that be? It doesn’t make sense, not entirely. I mean, he taught you things, didn’t he? Things about sheep, about the history of the place. You learned to speak his strange language, at least for a bit. He gave you things. I think I’ve even seen that wooden dog he made for you in your room back home. How can all that be imagination?”

Sherlock shrugs. “I could have found the wood and carved it myself. I could have lifted it from Ellie’s place. All the knowledge I gained, the language I partly learned ... I could have got all these things from books. I learned a lot of things while staying with Ellie, either because I read about them in her library, or because she told me about them. It’s so long ago that it’s difficult to decide now what was true and what imagined. Memories could be corrupted. For a long time, I banished all conscious thought about him and Chanctonbury Ring from my mind. I actually thought I’d deleted them all. Mycroft told me to.”

“Mycroft? Why?”

“To protect me, I suppose.”

“From whom, or what?”

“Myself, my own, too vivid imagination. From sentiment, basically. I don’t know. I didn’t ... I wasn’t well for months after the event. My parents found me with the help of some locals. I believe Ellie, who returned home from a brief holiday that evening, tipped them off where to go and look for me. Actually, I think she saved my life that way.”

“You mean you’d have died from exposure otherwise?”

“Likely, yes. I’d twisted my ankle. Quite badly, as it turned out. I couldn’t really put weight on it for weeks. It was swollen to twice its usual size, and I had to wear a bandage after the swelling had subsided. I wouldn’t have managed to hobble back down to Washington, even with a good crutch. Also, I was soaked through by the drizzle and the wet ground I’d been lying on – I’d lost track of time – and was hypothermic by the time they found me. It was dark then, and the fog was still heavy. My parents later told me that without the help of a local farmer’s dog, and the lucky chance that one of them virtually stumbled over my rucksack in the dark, they might have postponed the search around the Ring until the next morning, concentrating on other areas closer to Washington instead. In my state, I wouldn’t have lasted the night. By the time they found me, I had almost passed out from cold and grief. I dimly recall my father wrapping his coat around me and picking me up, carrying me while pressing me to his chest. I woke up three days later in hospital, delirious with fever. They said later that I had been awake during brief spells, but never really conscious enough to take in my surroundings. They were really worried. I had developed pneumonia, but worse than that was my mental state. I’d been babbling nonsense, they said, raving about dogs and lightning and sheep, about the trees and a mysterious friend I was trying to find and couldn’t. I tried to tell them that all that was true. Between spells of acute and dangerously high fever I recounted my adventures during the summer, slowly and brokenly, since I couldn’t talk much. I could barely breathe. Of course they thought my incoherence and the strangeness of my account were the fever and the medication speaking. Nobody believed me. Mycroft spent long spells at my bedside when Mummy and Father needed a break, and he tried to calm me down by talking sense into me – or what he believed to be ‘sense’, anyway. They thought I had run away from my bullying cousins and escaped into a happy dream-world, making up invisible friends – as children sometimes do – but taking it a step too far and losing myself in my sentimental construct. Mycroft told me, quite sternly, to divorce myself from childish fantasies and deep emotional investment. He warned me to not let my imagination drag me down. He reminded me of Redbeard – my beloved childhood dog – and how I had suffered when he had been put down. He steeled me against the danger of overpowering emotions. He taught me to control and delete them. He said that if I didn’t manage to get a grip, they’d lock me away, institutionalise me. At least I’d have to undergo months or even years of therapy, he said. Eventually, I relented. As I got better and the fever finally subsided, I started to believe him. I squashed my memories, buried them so deeply that they didn’t surface for many years, and even then only in dreams. I told myself I hated the countryside. I stopped reading adventure novels, Tolkien and the like, and studied scientific essays instead. I concentrated on facts and hard, rational evidence. I convinced myself I didn’t need friends. People inevitably let one down, or died like Redbeard. I told myself I wasn’t lonely. For years, I firmly believed it. I built a reputation as a loner, an outsider, a freak. Brilliant, yes, but an arrogant, abrasive arsehole who considered himself above the needs and fancies of mere mortals. People happily used my skills and my mind, but gave me a wide berth before and after. And I was content with that.”

He sighs. “And then you came along and offered me your phone. And everything changed.”

He can feel John swallow deeply and draw a shuddering breath. “God, Sherlock. I think I’d like to rap your brother round the ears for being such an arsehole.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Not that he doesn’t deserve it, but I think back then, he was convinced he was actually helping and protecting me. He prevented me from being sectioned, and he gave me the means to fortify myself against further bullying and abuse. It wasn’t ideal, but it worked.”

John shifts uncomfortably, drawing Sherlock closer. “Still, what he did was not okay. You’re not just a brilliant brain. As I’ve told you before – and you better start believing it – you’ve a great heart as well. The things you’ve done for me, selflessly, just to keep me happy ... I can’t ...,” he swallows again, “I still can’t fathom how you could have gone to these lengths. You were prepared to die for my happiness, and not just once. I’m sure you’d do it again, without hesitation. Sherlock, that’s ... I don’t deserve you.”

Sherlock holds him more tightly. “Shut up, John. I hope we deserve each other, and that’s it. As long as you’ll stay, we’re good.”

John’s answer is a sniff and a long, ragged breath. “I love you,” he mutters into Sherlock’s hair.

Sherlock smiles. Lifting his head slightly, he gazes up at John, studying his expression in the growing light. “I love you, too. Always have.”

John’s face splits into a broad, happy smile. He sniffs again and quickly wipes his eyes, before clearing his throat and reaching out to run a hand along Sherlock’s cheek.

“May I kiss you?” he asks.

Sherlock thinks for a moment, then nods. “Okay. I may not be any good at it, though. Janine obviously thought I was rather awkward and not very skilled – naturally, given my lack of practical ex—”

“Sherlock,” John interrupts him gently.

“Yes?”

“You’re babbling again.”

“Oh.”

“You’re nervous.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “What do you expect? Of course I’m nervous. I have virtually no experience to fall back onto. In my weaker moments, I imagined certain scenarios when a kiss between us might happen. Purely theoretically, of course. I never believed we would actually end up in this situation. And yet here we are.”

John laughs softly. “Yes, here we are. But listen, if you’re uncomfortable with this, that’s okay. We don’t have to—”

“I’m not,” returns Sherlock quickly. “Uncomfortable. I think.” He scoots into a sitting position, looking down at John who has propped himself up on one elbow, gazing at him with what seems to be a mixture of fondness and anxious expectation. Sherlock can see the pulse fluttering in his neck. His pupils are dilated – which might be due to the dim light – and he has been licking his lips repeatedly. John is nervous, too. The thought warms Sherlock. So even for Three Continents Watson, who likely has kissed lots of people, this here is special, unprecedented. Sherlock’s heart swells at the thought.

“Good,” says John. He cocks his head as he watches Sherlock. “You really imagined scenarios where we ended up kissing?”

Sherlock inclines his head. “When I couldn’t help it,” he admits, a little bashfully.

“Care to give an example?”

Sherlock feels a flush creep up his neck and into his cheeks. “Well ...,” he clears his throat, “there’s been ... the hall. We’ve just returned from a good case, preferably with a bit of running and you tackling a suspect to the floor. We’re stepping into the hall at Baker Street and taking off our coats, and you’re grinning at me from one ear to the next with your cheeks flushed and your hair ruffled ... We’ve not had a case like this for a long time, with you living with Mary and all that. But when it happened, and we were standing there … there were times when I wanted to kiss you rather badly. During your stag night, too. Had we not been interrupted, who knows what might have happened.”

John nods, swallowing. “I wouldn’t have resisted had you tried something.”

“Neither would I, I think. I doubt I would have ‘tried’ something, as you put it. I was hoping you might. But it would have been a mistake, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes. Even though I wanted to kiss you rather badly that night, too.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Well, at least before you threw up all over that posh carpet in the Mayfly Man’s flat.”

Sherlock chuckles. “Yes, that was a bit not good – what I remember from that part of the evening, at least. I’ve never been so drunk before in my entire life.” He frowns, trying to remember the evening in every detail. Unfortunately, there are gaps in his memory due to inebriation and fitful sleep. “They had an interesting egg-shaped chair.”

John laughs. “I marvel at how your brain works. You were completely sloshed that night – for the first time, really? But then you don’t really drink, do you? –, and yet you remember some strange piece of furniture.”

“It’s both a curse and a blessing, to be able to observe so many details others generally miss. It took me a long time to cope with the constant, overwhelming influx of information. As a child, and particularly as a teenager, with puberty and new hormones messing with my body as well as my brain, it was almost unbearable. I was quite miserable a lot of the time.”

John nods thoughtfully. “Would it have helped had you attended a different school?”

Sherlock shrugs. “I doubt it. Home-schooling might have helped. I doubt I’d have survived a state school, though. People did look after me at Harrow, tried to cater to my needs, provided constant stimulation and safe spaces to withdraw to when things got too much. I loathed most of my classmates, though. Many of the students were immensely privileged without ever really appreciating this fact and the advantages it offered. They constantly let boys like myself – the ‘poor scholarship kids’ who got in through hard work and the merit of their intelligence instead of their parents’ money – feel that we weren’t welcome. Some of these boys I met again at university, and the pattern continued, although there I had steeled myself against their attacks, and had found ways to deal with how my brain works.”

“It’s that why you took drugs initially? To calm your brain, establish order?”

Sherlock nods. How did they get from talking about kissing to the always contentious subject of drugs?

“Cocaine makes your brain incredibly fast, and the high is comparable but not equal to the rush of endorphins I get from a deduction working out, of all the pieces falling into place. It’s like standing in front of an impressionist painting. Up close, there are only blobs and dots of colour. You can’t see any pattern, any motif. But then you step back and the dots become an image. It’s like algebra, when you come to the end of a long equation and everything works out. It’s utterly brilliant. And cocaine can feel similar. A mere shadow, but it sufficed when the alternative hadn’t been available for a while. That’s why I used, John. Infrequently, always controlled. Always careful, and selective. I wasn’t one of those who tried out each and every class-A substance at Uni. I very rarely drank alcohol, and since I mostly stayed away from parties and other communal activities that might have involved recreational drug use, I didn’t indulge in those substances, either. My drugs of choice have always been nicotine and cocaine, and the latter only infrequently. I was never an addict, John. ”

“Except what you took on the plane. That wasn’t just cocaine, Sherlock.” John’s expression has darkened. His voice is stern. “And the dosage was dangerously high.”

Sherlock hangs his head, avoids looking at John. “I wasn’t in a good place that day.”

John reaches out to run his hand along his jaw. “I know,” he says quietly, his voice rough. “And I’m sorry. God, the thought that the plane might not have turned around, that you might have perished and I’d never have known ...”

He shudders, and now Sherlock reaches out and hesitantly touches his hand where it rests against his own cheek. “I’m here now, and I haven’t perished. And I won’t touch the drugs again, I promise.”

John raises his eyes to his. The corners of his mouth twitch up in a smile.

“Do you still want to try that kiss?” enquires Sherlock.

John’s smile broadens. “God, yes.”

Sherlock swallows. “Right, then. Shall I—”

The rest of the sentence is cut short by John’s lips when he surges forward and presses them to Sherlock’s. The touch is careful and gentle, chaste and dry, and yet electrifying. Even though it can’t biologically be possible, Sherlock thinks he can feel the kiss in his very toes and in the tips of his fingers. They tingle. Goosebumps erupt all over his bare arms. This is even more intimate than snuggling up to John. Even though he has been kissed before, this is the first time he is enjoying it, that he actually _wants_ it.

 _Janine’s kisses were wetter,_ announces Sherlock’s mind before it switches to cataloguing the fascinating new data coming in. John’s hand is in his nape, pulling his head forward and tilting it slightly so that their noses don’t collide. John’s lips begin to move softly against his own. Sherlock can faintly taste toothpaste, and an underlying aroma that hints at several hours of sleep. It’s a little stale, but not uncomfortably so. If Sherlock tastes the same, John doesn’t seem to mind. John’s lips are firm and narrow, a little chapped. They’re very careful, even a little hesitant, in the way they press to Sherlock’s and then relent, only to move in again a moment later. Eventually, there is some light nibbling. Sherlock approves. Somebody makes a low sound, almost like a growl. Sherlock realises it might have been him, because he feels one corner of John’s mouth twitch up in a smile. He moves forward, pulling Sherlock to him. The pressure of his lips becomes firmer, surer. Sherlock feels stubble on his upper lip. He opens his mouth slightly to mimic John’s nibbling. Now John makes a sound. Sherlock makes a mental note that apparently John enjoys what he’s doing. It bolsters his confidence, and encourages him to continue.

Somehow, both of his hands have come up to cup John’s face. They wander over his cheeks towards his ears, feeling more stubble and the small craters of scars – John seems to have suffered from acne as a teenager – which make the texture of his skin interesting to Sherlock’s curious fingers. The hair in his nape is short and soft, still slightly curled. Sherlock loves John’s nape, has yearned to touch it for years.

While reverently stroking the soft skin and the little curls of hair, Sherlock’s fingers still suddenly. There is something else here, something that doesn’t belong. A small rise, like a pimple or an insect sting. Sherlock’s mind barely registers it, half-addled by emotion as it is – who would have known that kissing was that distracting? But something is there. He runs his fingers over it again, curiosity and a faint stab of worry winning over sensual indulgence.

The upper part of the pimple moves. Sherlock draws back suddenly, gazing at John from narrowed eyes. John looks a bit dazed, his eyes almost all dark, his lips slightly swollen. “Sherlock? What’s the matter?” Then his expression falls.

Sherlock forestalls his next words with a raised hand. “It’s not the kissing, before you worry. It was good. I enjoyed it more than I thought I would. You ... er ... you’re good at it. Really. We can do more of that in the future, definitely. But for now I’d like to have a look at the back of your neck. I think you’ve acquired a tick.”

John frowns, his hand shooting up to touch his nape. “Shit, you may be right,” he says after feeling the spot Sherlock indicates. “Fuck that. I checked thoroughly after taking the shower – I hope you did, too. No? Right. You better do that. Can you reach the lamp?”

Sherlock switches it on, squinting against the bright light. “Turn around and let me see,” he instructs John, who obeys.

“Yes, it’s a tick.”

John curses softly. “There’s a Swiss army knife in my bag. It has a pair of tweezers. Try to get all of it out, okay? I’d rather not have an infection in that spot.”

Sherlock scrambles out of bed to fetch the knife. Luckily, the tick hasn’t attached itself firmly to John’s skin. Sherlock can take if off easily with the tweezers, and without leaving its mandibles embedded in the wound.

“Got it?” John wants to know.

“Yes.” Sherlock shows him the insect clasped between the tweezers. “It’s quite small, and doesn’t look like it has sucked any blood yet.”

“Good,” growls John, glaring at the creature. “I hate ticks. For the past three weeks, I’ve been treating two patients suffering from the long-term effects of Lyme Disease. One of them definitely got it from a tick he acquired while walking his dog in Hyde Park. If he’s unlucky, he’s going to end up with permanent nerve damage. And about a month ago, there was a child who’d caught meningitis, also from the bite of an infected tick. They’re loathsome creatures, ticks. I mean, what good are they, anyway? In the ecosystem, I mean.”

Sherlock shrugs, holding the pincers with the small creature into the light to study it more closely. “They’re rather fascinating, I find. Very adaptable.”

“They’re arseholes. The poor kid with the meningitis may never have proper hearing again. Get rid of the bugger, please.”

“I think I’d like to take it home and test it for infectious bacteria,” says Sherlock, walking over to the bathroom door where he hung his suit to dry. He searches for a plastic evidence bag in the inner pocket of his jacket, drops the tick inside and seals it. John snorts.

“Not an entirely bad idea.” He rubs the back of his neck again. “Sorry of this rather unromantic ending of our kissing session.”

“Not your fault. Where it sat you couldn’t see it when you checked, and given that it hadn’t attached itself firmly yet, you couldn’t feel the itch, either. Likely it wandered to the spot when you were asleep. Do you want me to check your back?”

“Is that a not very subtle attempt at making me strip in front of you?” enquires John with a cheeky grin.

Sherlock shrugs, returning to the bed and switching on the lamp on John’s bedside table as well. “It might. Although in this instance I was only trying to be helpful for once. No second thoughts or ulterior motives, honestly. Then again it’s only fair, don’t you think? You’ve seen me in nothing but my underwear, or even less, when I was in hospital and you helped me wash. But I’ve never seen you naked so far.”

John looks up at him, his grin turning into a soft smile. “And you’d like to, I assume.”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows at him. “Naturally. I need full visuals. For science, you understand.”

John chuckles. “Right, I see. For science.”

Sherlock gives him a grave look, before he starts chuckling as well.

“All right,” John says, and begins to struggle out of his t-shirt. Immediately, Sherlock’s eyes are drawn to his scar. His brain supplies a host of deductions: weapon, calibre, distance, angle and flight path, body armour, blood loss, infection, scarring patterns.

“Not very pretty, is it?” comments John quietly, following his gaze.

“It tells a story,” says Sherlock. “And in a way, it brought you to me.”

“You can touch, if you want.” John laughs softly. “Of course you’d want. You touch anything, even when it’s absolutely gross or threatens to bite your fingers off.”

“That was one time. Usually I wear gloves. And I didn’t anticipate that the bloody fish might still be alive.”

John chuckles, then sucks in a breath when Sherlock’s fingers begin to gingerly prod the scar, following the tendrils of white tissue where they meander into the skin like a misshapen star. “Does that hurt?” asks Sherlock, leaning in close and considering fetching his magnifier _(perhaps not quite appropriate)._

“No. Sometimes I feel it when the weather changes, or when I put a lot of strain on it, like when I was carrying Tiffany.” He looks up at Sherlock. “What about your scars?” he asks.

Sherlock stiffens. “Similar,” he replies evasively.

“Sherlock,” John begins, but Sherlock shakes his head.

“Not now, John, please. I promise I will tell you about them one day. You can ...,” he swallows, “if you want, you can have a look. Search for ticks on my back. You should do that, in fact. I forgot to look when I was showering. But don’t ask me about how I got them tonight. It would rather spoil the mood.”

He gazes at John imploringly, and casting down his eyes, John nods. “All right. Not tonight. Let me get up, stand next to the bed. Then you can check my back, and I’ll do yours.”

Sherlock steps back, then begins to search John’s back thoroughly with his eyes. Touching doesn’t seem appropriate, somehow. The mood has changed. What could have been playful is now fraught with tension and sadness at the reminder of Sherlock’s ordeal. He doesn’t find any more ticks, and tells John, before unceremoniously stripping off his t-shirt and presenting his scarred back to John while running his hands over his own arms and chest to feel for parasites, and also because he feels incredible vulnerable and exposed.

John also doesn’t touch, although Sherlock thinks he can feel his intense gaze and his worry and outrage like a firebrand. At length, the puff of air of a forceful exhale indicates that John has ended his inspection. “All clear,” he mutters, stepping back.

Sherlock turns to him, and they stand awkwardly next to the bed, both in their underwear. “This could be incredibly romantic, erotic, even,” observes John eventually, his eyes straying to Sherlock’s legs while trying to avoid his crotch. It’s rather comical, Sherlock thinks, especially because he’s trying to look anywhere but at John’s groin, too. “But somehow, we managed to botch this up, didn’t we?”

Sherlock smiles wryly. “I think so. I dislike to admit it, but in romance-related things we really are idiots.”

John laughs, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. We are. Tick free idiots, though. I guess that must count for something.”

Sherlock laughs as well. They end up smiling at each other. “Come on, let’s get back into bed and attempt some more sleep,” John suggests.

Sherlock agrees, reaching for his discarded t-shirt and pulling it over his head. When he surfaces again, John has leaned in close. “Just for the record, though, I think you look incredibly sexy despite being such a gangly git who’s inept at romance. Don’t let that silly brain of yours tell you otherwise, ever, okay?”

Sherlock feels blood shoot into his cheeks, and, interestingly, other parts, too. “You’re not too bad, either,” he mutters, his mouth dry. “The cycling ... it’s good.”

John grins at him while also reaching for his t-shirt. “Glad you noticed.”

“I notice everything.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do.”

John cocks an eyebrow at him and crawls into bed, switching off his lamp. “Get in, Mr. Notice-Everything.”

Tossing his head up haughtily, Sherlock stalks to his side of the bed, turns off the light and gets in, letting John cover him with the duvet. They exchange a brief, chaste kiss, a mere touch of lips, before, sighing happily, John lies back. Sherlock does so, too, wondering whether this kind of goodnight ritual is going to be a thing now. Would he mind? Not really. Despite initial misgivings, kissing John has turned out to be surprisingly enjoyable. Sherlock is eager to try it again, preferably without any ticks present. He thinks he’d like to attempt kissing with tongue, too. So far, the mere thought of exchanging saliva with another person has been intrusive and gross. Janine tried it once, and he almost bit her, shocked as he was at suddenly feeling her tongue touching his. He didn’t like it, although the intimacy wasn’t lost on him. Doing that with John ... Something flutters in his stomach at the thought. Yes, yes, he’d definitely like to try that with John. He’s going to have to do some research beforehand, just to make sure that he’s up to scratch and won’t disappoint his partner. Not that John isn’t eager to teach him. This thought increases the farm, fuzzy feeling in Sherlock’s belly. John wants to kiss him. He _wants_ to. He enjoys it, even. How brilliant is this? The one and only person Sherlock is in love with loves him back. It’s a marvel that even with his splendid intellectual faculties he finds difficult to comprehend.

Sherlock smiles at the canopy with its pattern of intricate flowers and insects _(bumble bees and butterflies, still too dark to make out their species despite the depictions being fairly naturalistic)_. So apparently kissing is going to be a thing between them now. Good. The bed sharing, too? To his surprise, he feels he wouldn’t mind. He does require time on his own now and again for some general house-keeping in his mind palace, and to unwind when the constant influx of data just gets too much, but even with John sharing his bedroom from now on (or Sherlock his), they have more than one room in their flat and ample space for Sherlock to withdraw. John has turned out to be a relatively uncomplicated bed partner. _Perhaps,_ Sherlock muses, _it’s because I know him so well, and because I trust him completely. He’s seen me at my best and at my worst, and he loves me regardless. I never thought I’d have that, never imagined I’d actually want it. I’d be a total idiot to cast it away again now. Although, considering what I’m like, I am going to mess it up, am I not? So I have to enjoy it while it lasts and make the most of it._

 _We_ c _ould convert either my room or John’s into a lab. A second fridge for my experiments could be established there, and some apparatus that so far hasn’t found space in the kitchen such as a drying cabinet. Oh yes, and a centrifuge would be good, too, as it would save me from having to use the one at Barts. I’d have to make space in my wardrobe, of course, but some of the old case note folders could also go into the other room. I could finally index John’s socks properly, and his shirts and other clothes, too._

“You’re not indexing my socks,” mutters John next to him, sounding sleepy but also touched and amused. “And you’re not going to mess it up.”

“How—”

“You were talking out loud, Sherlock.”

“Oh.” He turns his head to gaze at John who is lying on his back with his eyes closed and his hands folded on his chest on top of the duvet. “Would you want that? To share a bedroom with me? Or would that be too soon?”

“If you stay away from my socks, I won’t mind. No, that’s not true. I’d love to sleep with you every night – even if it’s just sleeping and never turns into anything else. I’d like that. But perhaps we should discuss these things once we’re back home.”

“All right.”

“The extra fridge is a brilliant idea, though. Wherever we end up putting it.”

Sherlock smiles. Still too keyed up to fall asleep, he reaches for his phone and pulls off the loading cable.

“You’re not looking for a new fridge now, are you?” asks John sleepily.

“No. Go to sleep, John. There are a few other things I want to check.”

John chuckles softly. “Yeah, I can imagine.”

Sherlock frowns at him. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing.”

“John?”

John yawns, still smiling. “Right. G’night, Sherlock.”

“Good night.”

They lie in silence for a while, interrupted only by the faint typing sounds from Sherlock’s phone.

“You’re looking up French kissing, aren’t you?” asks John suddenly, just when Sherlock assumed he had fallen asleep.

“Shut up.”

John laughs softly. Only a short while later, he is sound asleep. Sherlock half turns onto his side to watch him. He looks happy, content and relaxed. Sherlock’s heart twinges at the thought that John’s happiness is in great parts due to him. He, Sherlock Holmes, self-professed sociopath and all round human disaster is making John Watson smile and sigh and chuckle, and talk about his feelings, too. He is good for John. Who’d have thought? Sherlock smiles to himself, feeling both smug and apprehensive.

 

**– <o>–**

 

John is still asleep about four hours later when Sherlock is woken by his full bladder and the sound of a text message. Carefully, he slips out of bed and pads over to the bathroom to relieve himself. When he washes his hands, his eyes fall on their toothbrushes and he gives his teeth a quick brush. _Just in case there’s more kissing this morning,_ he thinks, and grins at his tousled reflection in the mirror with the pillow-print on one cheek, surprised once more at the unexpected turn of events that makes him consider how his breath smells in the morning because kissing a romantic partner has become an option.

When he returns to the bed, John has turned onto his side, his arm extended over the spot Sherlock has vacated. It looks as if he has missed Sherlock. He is still sleeping soundly, snuffling softly into his pillow. His hair is mussed and sticks up oddly.

Smiling, Sherlock slides in next to him. Immediately, John reaches for him, scoots up close and draws Sherlock to him with a sigh. For an instant, Sherlock freezes, before gently patting John’s arm and relaxing against him. He is warm and pliant and smells good. Sherlock sighs happily.

Angling for his phone, he finds a text message from his brother. He rolls his eyes. Typical. Likely, Mycroft has learned of the Warringtons’ predicament and Sherlock’s involvement in the case, and felt the need to poke his nose into the matter. Always the interfering git, Mycroft.

_I see cousin Daniel asked you to help find his daughter. Any success? M_

_Piss off, Mycroft. We’ve already found her. SH_

_She ran away because of her parents’ marriage troubles, didn’t she? M_

_Obviously. SH_

_Obviously. Daniel contacted my office, too, asking to be put through to me, but naturally, I referred him to you for the legwork. M_

_How nice of you. SH_

_I am not ‘nice’, Sherlock. I think  we both agree on that as one of the few things we are in accord. Truth to tell, I was a little apprehensive to suggest you take the case, since I knew it might involve you having to return to Washington. I did not consider it wise after what happened there last time. M_

_‘Last time’ was almost three decades ago, Mycroft. I am a grown man now. SH_

_Are you? M_

_Very funny. SH_

_You were highly traumatised by the events in the autumn of 1987, and even before that you were subjected to bullying from Daniel and his brother. Our parents shouldn’t have insisted on your spending more time than absolutely necessary with them. Sadly, they didn’t listen to me back when I warned them about potential problems. M_

_You told them not to drop me off at the Warringtons? SH_

_Yes. After all, they caused you a stay in hospital even before November 1987. Our aunt and uncle disliked you – me, too, in fact, that’s why I wasn’t invited in the first place. Aunt Mabel was jealous of Mummy because her sons weren’t as intelligent as we Holmes boys._

Sherlock frowns at his phone. Now this is interesting. It’s what he deduced from his aunt and uncle’s behaviour, but it’s good to see Mycroft confirming it.

 _Things went surprisingly well this time,_ Sherlock writes back. _We found the girl quickly. I didn’t come down with pneumonia, nor did I suffer a mental breakdown. Oh, and Daniel turned out to be quite contrite. He even apologised. SH_

_Intriguing. M_

_Not that it concerns you, anyway. SH_

_Your wellbeing always concerns me. M_

_Hah. Is this your attempt at humour? SH_

_No. M_

_Why did you text, anyway? You prefer to call. Anything of importance? SH_

_Just as I said, I wanted to know how you got on with the investigation. Moreover, I am sure the visit to Washington raised some questions. M_

_What questions? SH_

_You tell me. M_

_Mycroft._

_Surely, you’ve begun to reflect what really happened in the summer of 1987. Doubtlessly, your memories are sketchy. M_

_Ask yourself who is to blame for that. SH_

_I was acting in your best interests, Sherlock, as were our parents, for once. Your life was in acute danger. We were trying to calm you down, help you. You were suffering from a mental breakdown that fed the fever and greatly acerbated the pneumonia. For several days, you were critically ill. At one point we thought we’d lose you. So I did all I could to keep you safe afterwards. M_

_By telling me I’d let my imagination run away with me and to delete my memories of a truly happy experience? Thank you kindly. But tell me, since surely you’ve investigated the matter. Was I right? Was he real? The friend I told you about, and who you tried to convince me was a mere figment of my imagination? SH_

Mycroft’s reply doesn’t arrive instantly. Sherlock stares at his phone, his heart beating hard and fast, his mouth dry. He actually jerks when his phone vibrates with the next text message.

_I cannot be certain. It’s so long ago, and I only have your words to go on. M_

_Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you didn’t investigate the matter closer to its occurrence. SH_

_I didn’t have the resources – both technical and human – that are at my command now. Which of course doesn’t mean I didn’t try. M_

_What did you find? SH_

_There are a few leads you may want to investigate further, should you really want to learn more about the matter. M_

_What leads? SH_

_I’ll send them over later. I have to attend a meeting now. M_

_Mycroft._

_Mycroft? Oh, you’re doing this on purpose. SH_

_Not everything revolves around you, little brother. Enjoy the rest of your stay in Sussex. M_

The phone stays silent after that. Sherlock is tempted to fling it across the room. Next to him, John makes a snuffling sound. The arm resting loosely over Sherlock’s middle tightens. Sherlock lets out a long breath. Well, he has waited for almost thirty years, he can wait a little longer.

 

**– <o>–**

 

He spends the next hour researching Chanctonbury Ring on the internet and reading two rather fascinating articles about recent archaeological investigations in the region. He also searches for information about the effects of the 1987 storm and the replanting of the trees, and finds a number of old photographs from times before the disaster that show the tree-henge in its full glory. He saves a few of them on his phone, and tells himself it’s not due to sentiment. Some are property of a local museum, which Sherlock thinks might be interesting to visit. In fact, he is so engrossed in his research and reading that he doesn’t notice when John wakes up, and is surprised to feel a gentle press of lips to his shoulder.

“Morning,” mumbles John. “Get any sleep?”

“Yes.”

“Good. What time is it?”

“Quarter to ten.”

“When are we supposed to meet the Warringtons?”

“They didn’t specify. What time is ‘brunch’?”

“Dunno.” John grins mischievously. “Let’s make them wait a little longer.”

“Oh? You have some alternative plans for this morning, then?”

“Yep. Let me just pop in the loo and I’ll tell you.”

Putting away the phone, Sherlock grins and lies back again, watching John stretch and then amble off into the bathroom. He hears the toilet flush, John wash his hands and then brush his teeth, too. Sherlock’s heart begins to flutter in anticipation.

John appears next to the bed, grinning down at him. “Would it be okay with you if we resumed last night’s activities for a bit?”

“Would you like me to search you for ticks again?” enquires Sherlock playfully.

John laughs. “Define ‘search’.”

Sherlock scowls at him. “I’d like to try more kissing. I take it that’s your intention as well. That’s why you brushed your teeth, isn’t it?”

“Clever boy.”

He nods for Sherlock to move over and slips into bed next to him, immediately reaching for him. Sherlock comes willingly and with an eagerness that surprises him. This should be more awkward – he didn’t research French kissing during the night, but spent about an hour reading up on Tiffany’s favourite author and his series of fantasy books. He also downloaded the ebook version of _The Wee Free Men,_ and started to read the novel _._

But the moment their lips meet, it feels surprisingly natural. Sherlock allows John to take over and does his best to mimic his technique. It works well. Sherlock is fascinated that he doesn’t mind ceding control to John. Formerly, the mere thought of losing himself in sensual activity, rendering himself vulnerable and completely governed by sentiment and his baser function scared him. It’s not as scary as he thought, at least not if John is the other party. In fact, it’s good. Somehow, John’s proximity and touch switch off Sherlock’s brain. In the moment their lips touch, there is only John and nothing else. It’s quite blissful. It calms Sherlock’s mind in a way that formerly only drugs or a really juicy case were able to.

They kiss for several minutes, unhurriedly and still relatively controlled, and it’s glorious, particularly when John’s tongue accidentally touches Sherlock’s, making him jolt in surprise and then let out a sound which sounds embarrassingly like a moan. Both of them take that as a sign to deepen the kiss.

Eventually, they are interrupted by a knock on the door. John drops his face into the crook of Sherlock’s neck and begins to laugh softly. “Of course they’d come to wake us just when it’s bloody inconvenient.”

“You can tell the Warringtons we’ll be down in a few minutes,” Sherlock calls towards the door. A single knock acknowledges his words, before footsteps recede down the corridor.

John lifts his head and smiles at him. “Well, guess we’d better go. I’m rather hungry, to be honest.” He looks at Sherlock steadily, but with a hint of worry. “You enjoyed what we just did, didn’t you?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I thought that was rather obvious. It wasn’t too experimental for you?”

“No. You got the hang of it really quickly. Whatever you looked up on the internet last night, it seems to have been helpful.”

“I didn’t look up kissing, just so you know,” Sherlock informs him with mock indignation. “I read about little blue-painted men with red hair and a bad temper.”

“Crivens.”

“Oh, shut up.”

 

**– <o>–**

 

The Warringtons have occupied a table on the veranda overlooking the garden, screened from the bright morning sun by a large parasol. Vanessa is chatting with Mariella who has just served them coffee, and milk for Tiffany. Both Daniel and Vanessa look as if they didn’t get much sleep the previous night, but not due to any amorous activities but rather because they stayed up talking. There have been tears, too, and lots of coffee.

Tiffany is sitting with her nose in a book. Her hair has been cut even shorter, the rough fringe and edges straightened, probably by Vanessa herself. Tiffany is still a little pale and she seems to have caught a cold because her nose is red. But she looks fairly content, engrossed in her book. Sherlock catches a glimpse of the cover: _Monstrous Regiment,_ another novel by Pratchett. According to what he read online last night, it’s one of his most feminist. Sherlock smiles to himself. Good for Tiffany to school herself in these matters, if only to be able to call out her father on his bullshit when the situation arises.

Daniel spots John and Sherlock when they approach the table. He nods, causing Vanessa to interrupt conversation with her friend and greet them. Tiffany looks up from her book and gives both men a small smile before disappearing into Discworld again. John and Sherlock sit down at the table, John orders tea from Mariella while Sherlock opts for coffee.

“There’s a breakfast buffet in the restaurant, just through these French doors. Please feel free to help yourselves.”

Tiffany looks up from her book. “Can I go and get some food, please? I’m starving.”

Vanessa nods. “Of course.”

When she has left, the four adults sit in silence for a while with the Warringtons awkwardly sipping their coffees.

“You talked last night,” begins Sherlock eventually. Better cut straight to the core instead of waffling around.

Daniel nods gravely, avoiding to look at his wife. “Yeah. Nothing has been ultimately decided yet,” he adds hastily. “Concerning divorce, I mean. But ... we’ve agreed to separate for now, so that each of us can sort out the mess at their end, and then decide how to proceed.”

“Does Tiffany know?” asks John, looking troubled.

“Yes. She was present during most of the talk,” says Vanessa. “We explained to her that whatever happened between us has nothing to do with her, that we love her and always will, but that we believe that for now, it’d be better if Daniel moved out.”

“I’m getting a place in London – hopefully we can afford that. Likely it’ll be a cellar or an attic somewhere at the current rents.”

Sherlock thinks of dark and dank 221C with its mouldy walls. “I’m sure you’ll manage,” he comments dryly.

“I think Tiffany understands that things are not her fault,” goes on Vanessa. “In fact, after she’d listened to our confessions about our affairs and how they came to be, it seemed to me that she knew she isn’t to blame, and that even though our family life is going to change, the fundamental things are going to stay.”

Daniel nods. “Because of my work, I was never around much during the week. I tried to make time for her during the weekends, though, and I’ll continue to do so, more than ever now.”

“Ditch your lover, too?” quips Sherlock.

Daniel’s eyes narrow briefly. Then he sighs. “Yes, I think so. I need some time to think things through, and to talk to her, too, obviously.”

“So do I,” says Vanessa. “But we really don’t want to bother you with our problems. We just wanted to thank you once again for helping us find her, and also ... well, for being frank with us.”

“Well, you have to thank Tiffany for this, not us,” points out Sherlock.

“What do they have to thank me for?” asks Tiffany, reappearing at the table balancing a cereal bowl and two plates stacked high with food, mostly fruit and different cheeses, and a pain au chocolat. 

“For giving them the initiative to finally sort out their mess,” replies John, smiling up at her. Tiffany’s expression darkens as she unloads her plates onto the table and sits down again.

“I wish you hadn’t started your messes in the first place. You’re supposed to be the grown ups.” With that, she digs into her cereal. Sherlock’s stomach rumbles. John is already pushing back his chair. He looks ravenous. Sherlock entirely approves. It’s about time John rediscovered his appetite.

The brunch buffet is quite extensive, offering a wide range of mostly local produce. Watching John heap eggs, mushrooms and tomatoes onto his plate, Sherlock acknowledges he is quite hungry, too, despite the filling meal the previous evening. John gives his still empty plate a pointed glance and nods towards the cooked breakfast.

“You need some fuel. Moreover, I’d love to see you fill those jeans again,” he tells Sherlock with a smirk. “They look good on you as it is, but they are a bit loose round your backside.”

“Since when do you take an interest my backside?”

“Since 29th January 2010.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, all right, then.” Feeling strangely warm again all over, Sherlock helps himself to two croissants and fetches an extra plate for the cooked breakfast.

 

**– <o>–**

 

Back at the table, Tiffany seems to have begun quizzing her father about potential things to do in London. From the French doors, Sherlock watches her and her parents as they talk. Sherlock is relieved to notice that apparently – at least for the moment – practicality seems to have won over grief and upset about her parents’ impending separation. The girl tries to look at the bright side and make the most of her predicament. Sherlock considers this a very mature attitude, and hopes it’ll last. With a stab in his chest he recalls his own reaction to emotional turmoil. He didn’t possess Tiffany’s stability and her positive outlook on life. He envies her a little, then wonders why he takes an interest in the first place. It’s not like him – or is it? He recalls John’s words, his observations about how much, in fact, Sherlock cares about people. He knows John is right, whatever Sherlock tries to tell himself. He does care. And Tiffany is family, albeit removed and estranged.

“Whatever one can say about Vanessa and Daniel and the way they lead their lives, one can’t deny they did a good job raising Tiffany,” observes John who has arrived next to him, carrying a plate with vegetarian breakfast and a bowl with fruit and cereal.

Sherlock nods. “Indeed.” Glancing at John, he finds him watching the small family, his expression wistful and a little sad. Sherlock sees him swallow, before, apparently aware of Sherlock’s eyes on him, he visibly steels himself.

“I’m starving,” John announces, raising his plate as if to underline his point, and proceeds towards the table. Sherlock follows more slowly, watching his back thoughtfully (and trying to ignore how the sunlight creates golden highlights in his hair). He bites his lower lip, then makes up his mind. It might be fatal for their fledgling relationship, but at the very least, John deserves closure. He deserves to know where his daughter now resides, what her name is, if she’s had her first teeth yet. He deserves to decide whether he wants to be a part of his child’s life, and not have this decision taken out of his hands and made for him. Sherlock fears it’s going to cost him, but he swears he’s going to try his utmost to wheedle information out of his brother. Mycroft helped arrange this mess, it’s therefore Mycroft’s duty to help untangle it. And Sherlock is going to remind him of that.

 

**– <o>–**

 

Breakfast turns out to be a surprisingly pleasant affair. Sherlock avoids having to talk too much to Daniel, preferring to listen to Tiffany and John striking up a lively conversation about fantasy novels, particularly those of her favourite author. Having read the first two chapters of _The Wee Free Men_ (and having enjoyed them, so much so that he’s eager to continue) _,_ Sherlock actually understands what they are talking about, unlike those strange pop-cultural references John likes to tease him with.

Tiffany seems to have taken to John in particular, which touches Sherlock. Of course she would. People tend to like John. They only see his outer layer, of course, don’t know about the nightmares and anger issues, his bouts of depression and his reckless streak. Sherlock is aware of all of these, of John’s dark sides as well as the light, and he loves all of them. Something tingles in his stomach. He loves John, and John loves him back. Suddenly, he feels tempted to reach for his hand and squeeze it. He resists, not knowing whether it would be welcome. It’s one thing to kiss and cuddle in bed, but something else entirely to make their relationship public without John’s consent.

He needn’t have worried, however. Suddenly, he feels John’s leg brush his under the table, and one of his hands steal over to his as they rest in his lap. John’s fingers brush his, and he smiles involuntarily, his heart leaping. Immediately after, he tries to hide his joy. This is interesting, observing himself in love, doing couply things. Alas! In the past, he reviled public displays of affection whenever he witnessed them. To suddenly take active part in them is novel, exciting and embarrassing all at once.

Vanessa notices his change of mood (Sherlock chides himself for being so obvious and not reacting more quickly in hiding his infatuation – after all, he has a reputation to uphold), and smiles conspiratorially.

Sherlock watches her from narrowed eyes. She grins and inclines her head as if to answer his unspoken question. Next to him, both John and Tiffany frown as they watch their exchange. Daniel smiles to himself.

“Sherlock?” asks John cautiously.

Sherlock shakes his head. “It’s nothing, John. Vanessa is just taking a moment to congratulate herself on her match-making skills.”

“Match-making?” asks Tiffany.

John looks at Sherlock, then shrugs and smiles.

“Yes, well, I think cancelling the second room was a good idea,” he says airily.

“Was that to save money for daddy’s new flat?” Tiffany wants to know.

Vanessa laughs. “No, sweetie. I think we have enough to afford a new place for your father.”

“Why did you do it, then?” Tiffany looks at John and Sherlock. “Did one of you have to sleep on the couch, too, like Daddy last night.”

“No,” replies John evasively.

Tiffany watches the two of them. John’s hand has come to rest on Sherlock’s thigh in a gesture that’s possessive and yet strangely ... good. Sherlock feels the warmth of his fingers through the thick denim. Tiffany’s eyes widen, and she smiles.

“Oh, I think I understand. Are you going to get married now?”

John flushes rather adorably (and when has Sherlock started to bestow adjectives like ‘adorable’ on John?).

“Er ... we haven’t spoken about that yet,” says John. “Bit early.”

“Okay,” nods Tiffany. “That’s wise, I think. People shouldn’t rush these things.” She casts an arch glance at her parents who look appropriately contrite, then she empties her mug in one swig, picks up her book and continues to read. John watches her, laughing softly. He scratches the back of his neck and looks at Sherlock.

“We didn’t talk about going public. Hope you don’t mind.”

“I don’t. I thought you might.”

“No. It’s fine.” He thinks for a moment, as if surprised by his own words, then laughs. “It really is.”

_He looks genuinely happy. Because of me. Remarkable._

“Actually, you got this one wrong, Sherlock,” puts in Daniel.

Sherlock wipes what must have been a damnably dopey look from his face and turns to him. Studying him briefly, he nods.

“Of course. There’s always something. It was you who changed the booking, or at least suggested it.” Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “Why?”

Daniel snorts and rolls his eyes. “Because you’re a bloody idiot, and your ... partner is as well. I may not share your deductive genius, cousin, but I recognise attraction when I see it. And the two of you ...” He makes an impatient gesture. “I mean ... Honestly.”

“It was quite obvious, despite your earlier denial,” clarifies Vanessa.

Sherlock frowns at Daniel. “So you were trying to do us a favour by forcing us to spend the night together?”

“Actually, I thought I was making things a bit awkward for you,” admits Daniel with a shrug. “You know, for old times’ sake, and to pay you back for being such an insufferable smartarse. But it seems that my plan backfired.”

“Serves you right, daddy,” mutters Tiffany from behind her book.

Daniel laughs. “Yes, serves me right. In trying to play a trick on my cousin, I played Cupid instead. Do me a favour and don’t mess this up, Sherlock.”

“I’ll endeavour not to,” vows Sherlock, reaching for John’s hand and squeezing it. John is gazing at him with a fond smile. He looks quite touched. Sherlock feels an acute desire to kiss him – and where has this come from, this random need to suddenly kiss people? He’s mutating into a soppy, love-struck idiot. And what’s worse, he doesn’t even mind. Fascinating.

His thoughts are interrupted by his phone vibrating in the pocket of his jacket which he has slung over the back of the chair. He retrieves it and sees that another text from Mycroft has arrived. His heart beating fast, he excuses himself, gets up and walks into the garden.

_When you return to Baker Street, you will find some of the information I was able to compile concerning Chanctonbury Ring in a manila envelope on your desk. Most of the contents are hard copies of photographs and newspaper articles – those were the days before the internet and digital photography. I hope this will satisfy your curiosity. A word of warning, though: don’t expect too much, and don’t waste too much time and energy researching the matter further, Sherlock. I know you tend to get obsessed with these things. My advice would be to let matters rest. But when have you ever listened to my advice? M_

_I listened to you for the best part of thirty years, Mycroft, and not always to my advantage. But thank you for the envelope. SH_

_In fact, there is another matter I require your help with. SH_

_Oh dear. It doesn’t concern Dr. Watson for some reason, does it? M_

_You know it does. SH_

_Do you think this wise? It could upset the status quo, which I gather has finally – and rather inevitably, I daresay – tilted towards romance. Shared bedroom indeed. Had a nice stay at Findon Manor? Are congratulations in order, little brother? M_

_Not your concern, Mycroft. SH_

_As I’m going to be the one who’s going to have to pick up the pieces should this go awry, it does concern me. Will you require his medical files to ensure he doesn’t suffer from any STDs? M_

_Mycroft, pull your mind out of the gutter! Honestly. SH_

_But yes, the files would be helpful. For future reference. Since I was thoroughly tested after my latest drug usage, feel free to forward my files to John as well. SH_

_So this is serious, then? M_

_Of course it’s serious. It has been serious for years. Only the kissing is new. SH_

_Spare me the juicy details. What else do you want from me, Sherlock? M_

_I want full disclosure about their whereabouts. John deserves to know the truth. Don’t tell me you can’t arrange for information to be forwarded to him via safe channels. They mustn’t be endangered, of course. But at the same time he has to know. He’ll never be completely at ease otherwise. SH_

_Sherlock, you are aware that this exceeds the definition of ‘favour’ by a vast measure. Yes, I can pull some strings, but even I need time for that. Moreover I will have to call in some favours owed to me in turn. It’s going to be complicated. Costly, too. Are you sure? M_

_Yes. Consider it a challenge. You had your hand in creating this mess. You could have involved him in the first place. SH_

_No, I couldn’t. He was left out on purpose, because he is a liability. Ask yourself why you didn’t tell him you were alive when he thought you weren’t. You had your reasons, and so did I for doing what I did. There are more than just their lives at stake here. M_

_‘Just their lives’ ... That’s politicians’ talk. If nothing else, do it to lighten your conscience. SH_

_Since when are you concerned for my conscience? M_

_Consider it a brotherly thing. SH_

_Very funny. Are you really sure about this, Sherlock? As I said, it may cost you, and I’m not just referring to having to investigate some shady cabinet members and their sordid little scandals, or corrupt MPs on my behalf. Also, have you asked yourself why John hasn’t pursued this matter more decisively? It’s been half a year now. He hasn’t approached me to investigate the matter, provide him with information. I wonder why? M_

_You would have declined, anyway. SH_

_Yes, but the fact is he didn’t contact me at all. Don’t you think he may have made his peace with the status quo? He certainly seems to have moved on when it comes to romantic matters. M_

_He hasn’t made his peace. He misses her every day. It was plain to see in his interactions with Tiffany just now. He may miss Mary, too, perhaps, in a way. I don’t know. Not as a romantic partner, perhaps. I hope not. But he still considers himself a father, and part of a family. And the choice whether to have a place in his daughter’s life or not should be his, not yours or that of the intelligence community. SH_

_Very well. I’ll see what I can do. It will take a while, though. M_

_Thank you. Consider me in your debt. SH_

_Oh dear, you really are in love, aren’t you? Are you going to use emoticons next? M_

_Piss off, Mycroft._

_Ah, that’s better. M_

_Isn’t it? SH_

_:P SH_

**– <o>–**

 

“Did you know that lavender is like a drug for bees?”

Sherlock almost drops his phone. Tiffany has appeared next to him without him noticing. He has withdrawn to a corner of the garden where a small gazebo is situated, surrounded by a border of thick lavender bushes.

He spins round to the girl. “Yes, I know. They are drawn to certain scent molecules in the lavender, particularly 2-phenylethanol and linalool, which calm them down almost to the point of rendering them unconscious for a while.”

She glances at the flowers and the humming insects and smiles. “Granny Weatherwax keeps bees, and she can share their minds, did you know that? ‘Borrowing’, that’s what she calls it. She can do it with other animals as well.”

Sherlock recalls the character from his research session last night. “Yes, I know. I read up on your favourite author and his books earlier, and have just started with the first in the Nac Mac Feegle series.”

Tiffany’s face splits into a broad smile. “Cool. You’ll love them. They’re so good. I love Rob Anybody, and Daft Wullie, and the other Feegles. And their Kelda, of course. Do you think Feegles live up on our Downs? I mean, they could, couldn’t they? There are mounds enough. And perhaps they just hide from people.”

 _Like Jan used to hide whenever strangers were around_.

Tiffany sighs. “Yes, I know, I know. You’re going to say that they’re not real. Faeries and the like. That people made them up. But why are there so many stories about them, then, in so many countries? They have different names, that’s what Ellie told me. But every country has them in some form. So they must be there, or at least used to be there, in the past, don’t you think?”

Sherlock frowns at her. Her words have made him thoughtful. His rational, scientific mind, which has sustained him for almost forty years, tells him that of course they don’t exist. They are folk-tales, stories that people invented to make sense of natural phenomena they couldn’t explain otherwise, or as examples of moral dilemmas and their solutions. Bedtime stories turning into myths eventually, into fairy-tales. _Every fairy-tale needs a good old-fashioned villain._

Moriarty’s words echo through Sherlock’s mind. He knew about the power of stories, didn’t he? In a way, Sherlock feels he has been in one all the time. John writes stories about him on his blog. The press spins tales about ‘Hat-Man’ and ‘Boffin Holmes’. Magnussen used made-up stories to blackmail people, presenting them as facts. As in the Terry Pratchett books, stories can become real. So why not Sherlock’s childhood friend? He seemed so very real, still does, even after all these years.

Sherlock recalls running over the short, springy turf chasing a grey sheepdog, eating strawberries and threading them onto grass-stalks with a trusted companion at his side, playing chess with a strange boy who may have been human and real, or vividly imagined. Perhaps he was of the Faerie folk, too, risen out of the turfy mounds to keep a lonely boy company and to brighten his days for as long as he could. John’s words echo through his mind: _He was real to you. That’s good enough for me._

And yes, he _was_ real to Sherlock. Suddenly, he isn’t sure he wants to see the contents of the envelope Mycroft’s minions have left in the flat. Whatever the truth, in his mind, Jan will always remain real. And perhaps that’s all that matters.

Drawing a deep breath, “In Iceland, they have special people who deal with Faerie issues,” he offers.

Tiffany’s eyes widen and she smiles. “Really?”

“Yes. Whenever they build roads or similar things, they consult such a person, to make sure no dwellings of the _huldufólk_ are disturbed. There have been cases when this consultation didn’t take place and disaster struck: machines stopped working and workers got injured. People claimed the _huldufólk_ took revenge.”

“This sounds like something the Nac Mac Feegle would do. They do nasty things to people who dig into their mounds. I think they’re right. They should do that over here as well, have a person speak for the faeries. The Feegles have their toad who used to be a lawyer, and he advises them in legal matters.”

Sherlock smiles at her. “I’ll suggest it to my brother. He’s involved in politics.”

Tiffany beams at him. “I forgot to ask you if you want more coffee,” she then says. “Mariella told me to ask you.”

“No, thank you.”

“Okay. I think mum and dad want to leave soon. They’ll pay for the hotel. John also told them you didn’t want any money, and that if they want to pay anything, they should help the homeless people in London.”

“That’s a good idea.” Studying the girl intensely, Sherlock feels compelled to ask. “Will you be all right, Tiffany?”

She gazes up at him, her expression grave. She shrugs. “I think so. I’ll try not to cry too much. Two of my friends’ parents are divorced, too. Sometimes, they seem a bit sad, but on the whole they’re okay, I think. One of them has a half-brother now. That’s a bit odd, but they also have a cute little dog, so she likes the new family.” She shrugs again. “I look forward to going to London more often to visit Daddy. I want to see Dippy again before they put him away for repairs. And I want to go to the British Library, and there’s a house that’s like a museum only real, with food in the kitchen and everything. I’d like to go there as well, only I don’t remember the name.”

“Dennis Severs’ House in Folgate Street.”

“Yes, that’s the one.” She cocks her head. “Do you know London well?”

“Yes. Very well, in fact”

“Can I come and visit, too? John said you have a real human skull at your flat.”

Sherlock lets out a surprised laugh. “Why on earth did he tell you that?”

“Because she asked what the most curious thing at our place was, and whether we had any interesting books,” says John as he approaches them.

Sherlock smiles. “Yes, we have lots of books, and yes, you may visit if you want. Preferably without your father, though.”

“Of course. I doubt he’d approve of the skull,” grins Tiffany. “I’ll tell them about the coffee.”

When she has sauntered off, John steps over to Sherlock. “You all right?” he asks quietly. “You were gone for quite a while.”

Sherlock nods. “There was a matter I had to discuss with Mycroft.”

“Oh? Anything important.”

“We’ll see. I can’t say more yet.”

John nods, looking troubled but shrugging it off. “Okay. What about the rest of the day? Want to stay around or return to London straight away.”

“I’d like to stop by at Ellie’s briefly, then we can head off home,”

“Okay.”

Sherlock follows John’s gaze to where it lingers on the Warringtons, again touched by wistfulness. He swallows lightly. Whatever Mycroft’s investigation will reveal, he feels he has done the right thing.

“There’s something else I’d like to do,” adds Sherlock.

“What’s that?”

“Shopping. There was a small supermarket on the High Street.”

“Shopping, you?”

“Yes.”

With that, he sets off towards the terrace to take leave of the Warringtons, John following him with a bemused expression.

 

**– <o>–**

 

They drive up to the carpark this time. The flinty path shows clear signs of last night’s rain. Deep gullies have been washed into the chalky soil, exposing more stones. At one point during their uphill track, John stoops to pick up a flint.

“Some kind of fossil, perhaps?” He hands it to Sherlock.

“Yes. I looks like part of a sea-urchin. This line of dots here hints at that.”

John smiles and pockets the stone. “Years ago, when I was a kid, we spent two summers in the Lake District. I remember collecting all kinds of stones back then. But I never found any fossils.”

“Yes, the geology isn’t very conducive for preserving fossils,” agrees Sherlock. “Whereas here, we are practically walking on the remains of small sea-creatures.”

John smiles, gazing down at his chalk-stained shoes. “Indeed. It’s so strange to imagine that all of this was covered by the sea at some point.”

Sherlock shrugs. “Probably will be again in years to come.”

John laughs grimly. “Yeah, when we continue to mess up the planet. Hopefully, we’ll be gone by then.”

His expression turns grave and he swallows. _Is he thinking about his daughte_ r, wonders Sherlock. John leaves behind offspring who is going to carry on his genes in generations to come. It’s a comforting thought that for many years, something of John Watson is going to remain in the world, climate disaster or no. The Holmes genes will likely die out. Neither Mycroft nor Sherlock are going to produce any children, at least not in the natural way. Perhaps that’s for the best.

“She’s a lot like you,” remarks John, stirring Sherlock out of his thoughts. He gazes at him sharply.

“Who?”

“Tiffany. Like you said, she seems to have inherited your intelligence, your quick wit and your directness. Some of your awkwardness around people, too, if I may say so. It’s comforting to know, somehow, that there are always going to be people like you in this world, even if you don’t have children of your own.”

Sherlock stops and frowns at John. That’s almost exactly what he has just thought about John’s legacy.

John stops, too, and turns back to him. “What?”

Sherlock shakes his head and waves a hand. “Nothing.”

The corner of John’s mouth lifts in a smile. “Have you ever considered having children?”

Sherlock scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Of course not. Not my area, remember. Women and sex and all that.”

“Well, there’s adoption, or donating sperm.”

Sherlock walks past him, shaking his head. “No, I never considered any of these routes. Why would I? Why inflict another one like me or my brother onto the world?”

A hand on his shoulder spins him round. John looks angry. “Will you please stop with this kind of talk? Didn’t we establish last night that you’re brilliant and good, and, frankly, bloody gorgeous.”

“That’s just your opinion.”

“So what if it is (which isn’t true, because I know plenty people who love or at least like you)? Listen to me, you stupid git, I love you. And were circumstances different, I would love to raise my daughter with you. You are good with children, far better than you believe. Tiffany adores you. And so do I. So let go of his self-deprecating shit.”

To underline his point, John leans in and pecks Sherlock’s lips. “Never forget what I just told you, okay?” he adds softly.

Sherlock swallows and nods. “You would be a good father,” he replies hoarsely.

John looks at him steadily. “With your help, yes.”

 

**– <o>–**

 

The rest of the climb is conducted in thoughtful but not awkward silence. When they reach the cattle grid and gate near the pond, they get overtaken by a group of mountain-bikers. Ahead, further along the South Downs Way, a couple walking their dog can be seen, and some children running over the long grassy slopes beyond Chanctonbury Ring, flying colourful kites. The two men leave the main path to climb up to the top of the Down and the stone marker, which, Sherlock has learned during his internet research, is a triangulation point for the Ordnance Survey mapmakers. They stop there, and while John gazes out over the Sussex countryside as far as the sea, Sherlock bends his gaze eastward towards his trees.

Even though he would have preferred to be alone with John on top of the Downs, seeing the area teeming with life feels more appropriate, somehow. People love coming up here, for the view, the thrill of a tricky descent on a fully suspensioned bicycle, for the exercise, or simply for the peace of mind it brings. Everybody will retain their own memories of this magical place. The children may forever link it with the freedom of roaming the Downs in summer, short turf under their naked feet, their mobile phones and tablets forgotten for as long as they fly their kites or kick a ball across the grass, or look for wild strawberries in the sheltered spots between the hawthorns.

The trees are growing again. In places, seen from the right angle, the henge almost looks hale and complete again. In another decade, the canopy will be even rounder, and probably almost closed in two.

Sherlock smiles to himself at the thought. There were times when he would have laughed at anybody suggesting he’d make it past thirty with the kind of life he leads. But he’ll turn forty next year, and now with John apparently determined to stay for good (for now), and moreover Mrs. Hudson beginning to increasingly depend on him, and not to forget Lestrade – the poor man and indeed the entire Metropolitan Police would be utterly lost without Sherlock – the incentive to look after himself has become rather pressing. He’d better last for another ten years, then. Twenty, preferably. Or thirty, forty. In forty years, the trees will have reached full maturity and will be impressive in their height and girth, particularly those on the outer edges of the henge. Suddenly, Sherlock knows that he’d like to see that.

Stealing at glance at John at his side as he stands and gazes over the South Downs, a smile on his face and the wind ruffling his hair, Sherlock tries to imagine him in forty years’ time. He will be stooped and grey, wearing glasses and perhaps a hearing aid. Most probably he’ll use a walking stick again, or even a walking aid. His shoulder will be stiff and often pain him, and his back will be bent. But his eyes will still be of the same dark, brilliant blue like the butterflies on the Downs, and he will be wearing a lambswool jumper against the cold. And he will tell Sherlock that it was a bloody ridiculous idea to hike up here because they’re both getting on – and yes, Sherlock, you, too, better believe it – but he’ll also smile fondly at his partner – yes, partner – of the past forty years, and indulge his whims as always.

Sherlock swallows against the sudden lump in his throat. He wants this, he realises, wants it badly. He wants John to stay with him and share his life. He wants both of them to remain hale so that they can return here in forty years’ time and visit the trees again.

“You all right?” asks John quietly.

Sherlock nods.

“Thinking about the past?”

“No. The future, actually. We have an appointment here in forty years.”

“Forty? Gosh. That’s rather ambitious, don’t you think?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Perhaps.”

John steps closer to him, gazing towards the trees. “Okay then. I’ll try to remember.”

For a while, they stand in silence, until John nods towards the henge. “Want to go there now?”

Sherlock thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. “Not today. There are too many people about, and we’re expected at Ellie’s at four. She is making scones. You wouldn’t want to miss those.”

“I’ll take your word for it. Why did we come here, then? I mean, the view is quite spectacular, particularly today because the sky is so clear after the rain. But I thought you wanted to have another look at the trees.”

“I’ll save that for another visit. Today, I’d like to leave a gift.”

“A gift?”

Sherlock withdraws a packet of strawberry flavoured Hubba Bubba from his pocket and places it on the triangulation stone.

John gazes at the gum, then at Sherlock. He looks tempted to say something, but apparently thinks the better of it. He nods, a small smile playing on his lips.

“I’m sure it’ll be appreciated,” he says.

 _I hope so,_ thinks Sherlock.

He touches the gum briefly, then nods to himself and turns to leave. John joins him, walking close enough so that their shoulders brush. To Sherlock’s surprise and delight, he reaches for his hand. They twine their fingers together, and it feels right. He knows it’s ridiculous and completely irrational, but he feels light and floaty, with John’s hand the only thing tethering him to the earth.

On their way back towards the South Downs Way, suddenly John stops. Sherlock feels him tense. He gazes around intently until his eyes focus on the hedges surrounding the Dew Pond.

“Anything the matter?” enquires Sherlock, feeling a strange but not unfamiliar thrill as well. Something – or somebody – is watching them.

“Something’s there, in the bushes. I’m pretty sure of it. Want to go and investigate?” asks John in a low voice. Sherlock shakes his head. He should. It may answer some of his questions. He can almost feel eyes on him, and the feeling is so familiar it raises gooseflesh on his arms. He really should go and have a look. Just one. It’d be a matter of a few minutes. He stares at the spot. He blinks. The moment passes.

“Not today,” he replies.

John nods, gazing at him thoughtfully. “Yeah, I forgot. The scones.”

Sherlock smiles at him, wide and unguarded. “Indeed, the scones. You wouldn’t want to miss them.” Raising his voice, he adds, speaking towards the hedges and the pond, “And we’ll be back here, anyway. Soon.”

“Soon,” echoes John.

Something rustles in the hawthorns round the pond, as if in answer to and approval of Sherlock’s announcement. It could be a small animal or a bird. It could be some other, larger creature hiding there. A stray sheep, or a loose dog. A boy, or a man, even. Who knows? Perhaps the envelope on his desk at Baker Street will provide a hint. Perhaps it won’t. Maybe the creature will venture forth once they’ve left and fetch the chewing gum and recognise it as a gift, a reminder of a summer long past. Maybe the kite-flying children will pick it up, surprised and delighted about the strange stroke of luck.

To his utter astonishment and surprise Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective, finds that this is a riddle he doesn’t want to investigate – much less solve – right now. There is time for it some other day. For now, there is an appointment with scones and tea and good conversation, and later with a promising novel for the journey back to London (he must persuade John to drive). They could go out for dinner tonight. Angelo’s, with a candle on the table. Or perhaps Lestrade or another officer of the MET will come over with a case. There’s the prospect of more kissing, and new bedroom arrangements at their flat. Mrs. Hudson will be delighted to win her bet with Mrs. Turner concerning their changed relationship status.

“You coming?” asks John, tugging lightly at his hand.

Sherlock smiles at him, and upon an impulse – and because now he can – steps close and kisses him. “Yes.”

 

**– The End –**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again there are two illustrations:
> 
>  
> 
>  

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, illustrations will accompany this story. They and updates about the story's progress can be found at my [tumblr](https://khorazir.tumblr.com/tagged/summer_boy) tagged #summer boy.
> 
> Also, hamstermoon has created beautiful [**Cover Art**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10105988) for this fic. Thank you very much :).


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